Scheherezade
by sgam76
Summary: Sherlock is home, he and John are returning to cases, and all's right with the world-right? But a series of minor mishaps and injuries makes two things very clear to his friends and family: first, Sherlock's time away wasn't the grand adventure everyone has assumed it was; and second, that time has left Sherlock with a legacy that's bleeding into his life today. Sherlock is Not Ok
1. Glory to him who sleepeth not!

Notes:

This is my attempt to deal with several things I missed in S3-why isn't anyone talking about what Sherlock went through (and how is he handling it)? What happened between TEH and TSoT (other than event planning)? And finally, how did he and Mary become such good friends?

The title comes from a princess in the Arabian Nights, who had to tell a new story each night to keep herself alive.

This story is complete—45 chapters, which I will post gradually since I have to do a lot of copy-and-paste to transfer each one from AO3. One note about format: for the most part, sections in italics are memories. Lines in both bold and italic are text messages.

Chapter One: _Glory to him who sleepeth not!_

"John. Oh, _John…"_

John lurched awake in that harsh, "Afghanistan" kind of way he'd almost forgotten about—instantly alert for danger or disaster, heart pounding, searching for the threat. He was standing next to the table in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, not sure how he got there, a blanket slipping off his shoulders and Mrs. Hudson was standing next to him. Tears streamed down her face.

"What's happened? Did Mary call?" Mary was out with a group of her friends from work; a sort of early bachelorette party, apparently. That had given John a perfect excuse to go haring off with Sherlock (and wasn't there a quick hiccup to his heart at that thought—"not dead, not dead, still not dead"). They'd spent hours watching some hapless group Sherlock suspected were involved in a human trafficking ring, and come back with no information and soaking cold everything after huddling out in the icy rain for four hours. Mrs. Hudson had invited them in for hot toddies, and … that was the last John remembered. He glanced quickly at his watch—they'd been back not quite two hours.

"Oh, John, I've done something terrible. I didn't mean to, I really didn't, but he was so _tired_ … And now he's, well, he's — _please_ can you come upstairs?" She paced back over towards the stairs, swiping at the tears still running down her cheeks. John shoved the chair and blanket aside and hurtled up the staircase.

He stopped short at the top—the flat was in near-darkness, only the dim light from the kitchen hood giving any illumination. He reached for the light switch, only to have Mrs. Hudson snatch at his wrist. "No, dear—the light makes him worse", she gasped. "Worse, how?" he demanded. His eyes were scanning the dimly lit room—someone had clearly been very ill by the sofa, but no one was there now. "Where is he? What's wrong with him?"

But then he heard the noise—a low anguished murmur that rose and fell like conversation, in some unrecognizable language. And it came from Sherlock, who was huddled far back under the desk. Without a thought, John flew across the room and onto his knees, reaching for Sherlock—only to have him shriek and throw himself further back, still continuing that awful noise. Without taking his eyes off Sherlock, John snapped at Mrs. Hudson. "What did you give him? Christ, his pupils are like marbles!"

Mrs. Hudson sobbed. "I'm so sorry, John. I was only trying to help. He hasn't slept at all since he's been back, you know—not at all. And you were cold, and he was so tired, but he couldn't sit still, and… and… _Ispikedhistoddywithmyherbalsoother._ " She clapped her hands over her mouth like a child. John snapped instantly into Doctor Mode. "Get me the bottle, right now. Wait—before that. What happened? How did he act? When?"

Mrs. Hudson had stopped sobbing but was still trembling. "He kept flitting about the kitchen after you fell asleep—couldn't stop. So I suggested he go upstairs so he wouldn't wake you. I thought if he sat for a bit the tonic might work. I left the doors open so I could hear. And after a bit it got quiet, and I went up and he was asleep on the couch. So I came back down and made a cuppa for myself, but then I heard him being sick upstairs. So I went dashing up—I did call you, John, but… and when I got upstairs, he didn't know me. I was so frightened. I've never seen him like that, even when he was using, well, you know. And I tried to get him to come downstairs to you, and he pulled away and got back under there in the dark. I turned the light on and that, that, it scared him, and he started making that terrible noise. Please, John, what can we do?"

This was making John more uneasy by the moment. "Right, then. Go get the bottle, and then call a cab. We're going to have to take him to A+E, and I'm pretty sure they're going to want to pump his stomach. Tell me when the cab gets here." Mrs. Hudson moaned but scuttled back down the stairs. John set himself to coaxing Sherlock out from under the desk. Based on the earlier reaction, he took a very cautious approach this time—slowly crawling back under the desk and sitting so close to Sherlock that their shoulders nearly touched. The agitated, painful litany continued; Sherlock's voice rose and fell but never grew louder than a hoarse whisper, as if he was afraid someone would hear. "Sherlock?" he said, very softly. The voice stumbled momentarily. "Sherlock, mate. We need to leave now." The voice started up again, but less certain. "You're frightening Mrs. Hudson." He slowly, carefully reached out and touched Sherlock's hand. "Let's go get you sorted, yeah?"

For the first time, Sherlock looked fully in his direction, pupils so dilated his eyes were almost black. He blinked, slowly, and the sounds stopped. And finally, finally, a breath, and…. "John?"

By the time the taxi arrived, he'd managed to coax Sherlock out from under the desk and gotten him wrapped in two blankets. John and the cabbie, between the two of them, half-carried him down the stairs and into the car. John climbed in and wedged Sherlock up against him, and Mrs. Hudson hurriedly got in from the other side. "Mrs. Hudson, you really don't need to—"

"Yes, I do", she snapped, and that was the end of that.

As they trundled along, John realized he'd missed something important. "What did you mean, earlier, when you said he hadn't slept? He's been back almost a week—when did that start? And how do you know?" Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I'm an old woman, John, with a bad hip. I don't sleep much. And I know that every night since he's been back, if he's not away somewhere, he's up. Playing the violin, pacing, something—he's up. Haven't you seen the circles under his eyes? And how thin he is? He's just not _right_ , poor dear, and he certainly won't tell me why. Perhaps he'll tell you." And John, for the first time since Sherlock's return, really _looked_ —looked at Sherlock as he was today, rather than just seeing "Sherlock" as an indistinguishable whole.

Sherlock looked _ill_. His eyes were closed, and his eyelids looked like bruises against pale skin. The fine bones of his wrists stood out. The exotic cheekbones were even more prominent than usual. And John realized that his arm around Sherlock's waist was feeling something under his shirt—something other than clothing. Just as he started to explore that particular concern, though, they pulled up to A+E and were swept inside.

As it happened, John knew the attending physician slightly—a smart woman, and trustworthy. He handed over Mrs. Hudson's bottle, and gave a brief history. As he expected, the best option was to pump Sherlock's stomach—a mixture of rum, toddy mix and whatever the hell was in that tonic just didn't sound like a wise thing to try and sleep off, particularly in light of the extreme reaction it had caused. Sherlock was in for a very uncomfortable time over the next hour or so, then. John had just started in to the treatment room when his mobile phone rang. He glanced quickly at the display and closed his eyes: _Mycroft_. Mrs. Hudson saw him hesitate, and marched after Sherlock on her own in full protective mode.

John answered. "Mycroft, do you _really_ watch the CCTV at midnight?" Mycroft was wise enough not to take offense. "What's wrong with my brother, John?"

"He's been drugged." He heard Mycroft's quick breath and realized he could have phrased that better. "No, not intentionally. It was accidental."

Mycroft paused a little longer than might be considered normal. He really did care for his brother, in his own obsessive kind of way. "Do I need to come? Do you require any assistance?"

"They're pumping his stomach. He should be fine, but he probably would prefer you not see him like that. I expect he'll be home in a few hours."

Mycroft sighed. "You're quite right. It would bring back… unfortunate memories for both of us." John held his peace. It was easy to forget that Mycroft had been the one to deal with Sherlock's addiction, and (judging by the little John had put together over time) had saved his life more than once in the process. Mycroft continued, a bit hesitantly. "John, you may wish to have the doctors also check Sherlock's back and ribs whilst he is under care. He is not quite as recovered from his … activities as I suspect he has led you to believe."

John all but exploded. "What? What's wrong with him? We've been running all over town these past few days and he never said…" Mycroft interrupted calmly. "Nothing serious, John, or I would have intervened. But I assume he may need some minimal care at this juncture that I am sure he has ignored." John heard a different voice briefly in the background. "I must go now, unless you need additional assistance from me. Please call me when Sherlock returns to Baker Street, no matter the time, if you would. Goodnight, John."

John dropped his phone back in his pocket and walked back to the treatment room, where vile noises indicated that Sherlock's treatment was underway. He signaled from the doorway to a slightly-green Mrs. Hudson and took her place at the far side of Sherlock's bed.

A fairly nasty hour later, Sherlock was awake, exhausted and wretched. John pulled the treating physician aside and relayed Mycroft's information about Sherlock's possible injuries, which lead to an ugly five-minute argument. John finally, out of patience, threatened to call Mycroft back unless Sherlock allowed the staff to remove his (now frankly disgusting) shirt and assess the situation. Sherlock, by this time in a rare old temper, ordered John out of the room. And John, recognizing that Sherlock had had enough drama for one evening, went.

John settled on a bench beside a dozing Mrs. Hudson. He texted Mary to let her know what had happened, and Mary was her usual sweet self ( _ **Oh, dear. Poor boy. Do you need me to come?**_ ). Two hours later, against the advice of the A+E doctor, Sherlock insisted on leaving. The sun was just starting to glow on the horizon as they pulled up in Baker Street. Sherlock proceeded to climb out of the taxi himself, and made it halfway up the stairs before stumbling to a halt. John just laced an arm around his waist and hauled him carefully up the rest of the way. Mrs. Hudson tottered along behind and started to make tea before John pointed her back downstairs. He'd already given her a stern lecture about the stupidity of ever giving anyone any kind of drug without their knowledge (and of course felt a complete cock when the tears started up again). Sherlock had also stopped her when she tried to apologize, and told her, with a surprisingly sweet smile, that he just needed prior notice if she planned to poison him again.

John waited until Sherlock was settled in bed before he said what needed to be said, in as calm a voice as he could muster. "You have been beaten, extensively and repeatedly. You have three cracked ribs only partially healed that must cause you considerable pain. You have extensive deep muscle bruising across your entire back, and two deep puncture wounds that have recently reopened after partial healing. You have small amounts of blood in your urine. And you told me none of this, while we chased terrorists and you pulled me out from under a bloody bonfire, after riding a motorcycle up and down staircases across half of London."

Sherlock's eyes were closed, but he swallowed and opened his mouth to speak.

John stopped him. 'No. Not now. I know you're miserable. I know you somehow thought that, if I knew you were unwell, you couldn't convince me to come with you and do what needed doing. I understand that. But _Christ_ , Sherlock. You have to realize that…what happened before? It's still raw. It's still _here_." His left hand clenched over his heart. His voice was cracking now but he couldn't stop. "I have to know you're OK. But even more than that? I have to trust that you'll _bloody_ _tell me_ if you're not. Please. _Please_."

Sherlock tried to answer and failed, his lips clenched and those dark eyelashes damp. Then he nodded, twice. Firmly.


	2. Say, can ye minister to diseasèd mind?

Chapter Two: _Say, can ye minister to diseasèd mind?_

Of a wonder, Sherlock was (mostly) as good as his word over the next week. He accepted, and used, topical pain patches John got for his ribs; he said (and Mrs. Hudson confirmed) that he was sleeping "as needed"; he even showed up at John's surgery on time to have the renewed stitches removed from his back with only a minimal sulk. And John, very slowly, began to relax.

The morning of the eighth day after Sherlock's poisoning, he and John were still working the human trafficking case, on their way to the scene of yet another murdered prostitute, when John was called in unexpectedly to work in the surgery. Sherlock, already deep in the thrall of a case that had multiple murders with no visible sign of injury and three possible lines of connection to their traffickers, told John to go with no real concern. He did notice, though, the sideways look John gave him and sighed with exasperation. "John. I promised. I'm fine, and I would tell you if I wasn't. Just go—I'll work the crime scene with Lestrade and give you the results later." He strode off, coat swirling.

John ended up working the next nine hours straight, stopping only when Mary told him he'd had a call come in minutes before on the mobile phone he'd left sitting in his coat pocket. John stretched, turned off his desk light and took the phone, glancing at the message display. Lestrade? He cued up the message while Mary stood in front of him with a questioning look.

Lestrade didn't even identify himself, just jumped in. "John? You need to call me right now, or come to Baker Street if you can't call. If I don't hear from you in ten minutes I'm going to have to call Mycroft."

John couldn't punch the number in fast enough. Greg answered on the first ring. "Thank Christ. Look, mate, you need to come to Baker Street." John could hear noises in the background, and could tell from Greg's voice that he was doing something else while talking. "I'm on my way," John said, while hurriedly mouthing to Mary where he was going. She called after him that she'd meet him there as soon as she could break free. "What's wrong?" Out at the street, he thrust up one arm for a taxi and was lucky enough to land one as quickly as Sherlock always could. He climbed in and gave the cabbie the address, waving his free hand to emphasize the need to hurry.

"It's—I dunno, really. Sherlock hurt himself a bit today. Nothing serious, or so I thought—he climbed into this rubbish pile at the murder scene and laid his leg open on some sharp bits. Popped right back up and kept working for the next hour, happy as a lark. And then we're standing by my car wrapping things up and he just…fell. No warning, so I couldn't catch him, and he raps his head right hard on the street. Out cold."

"I tried to pick him up and realized that his trousers were soaked with blood—he'd been bleeding out that whole time and never said a word. Knowing him, he didn't even notice. And it was really dark in the warehouse where we were, so no one saw. "o we carted him off to be stitched up and get his head checked. They gave him some blood, and said that should do the trick now the bleeding was stopped. He woke up properly about midway through and was pretty stroppy about them wanting him to stay overnight. So I was due to go off duty anyway, and I asked if they'd let him go if I agreed to stay with him for the next 12 hours. We got back here about 4, and I laid down on the sofa for a bit since I'd been up all night. Sherlock was just wandering about being snarky about everything like he does, you know, so I didn't worry about it much. He didn't really mind my being there, he was just put out in general."

"So what's wrong?" John interjected. "It would help if I knew what we're dealing with."

"When I nodded off two hours ago he was thinking in his chair. Set an alarm on my mobile to check him. And then I woke up an hour ago and, well… he's out of his head, seems like." And hearing John's quick intake of breath, "No, not like concussion. I know what that looks like, and his pupils are a little dilated but fine. He's just, well, he's not making sense. I know he's clean so it's not drugs. And his scan at the clinic was fine—no head injury to speak of. He don't seem to know me, either, and he's _afraid_. John, I've known him for years, man and boy, but I have _never_ heard him make sounds like this. So please, can you hurry?"

Thankfully John's taxi pulled up just at that point. He threw money at the cabbie, thrust open the front door and ran full-break up the stairs. Then he heard exactly the sounds he feared: that heartbreaking, gasping conversation of the damned from Sherlock.

Sherlock was back under his desk, the flat once again near-dark. Greg Lestrade stood nervously in the doorway to the kitchen, flexing his hands as if wishing for something, anything, he could actually do to make this _stop_. His lip was split and he had the beginnings of a black eye. John came to him first to take a look but Greg flinched away. "I'm fine. Really. I tried to make him come out and he, he fought me." He gave a wobbly chuckle. "Fights dirty, little bastard." He looked back at Sherlock. "It goes in a cycle, like. He spends time speaking in whatever language that may be, talking, pleading, to someone named Pasha. And then he…" Greg took a breath and plowed on, "it's like he's a kid, a little kid, and something awful's happened to him. And he calls to someone named Abel, and he cries and tries to stop himself, and he's so frightened he shakes. It's just… it's horrible. We have to fix this, John. How do we fix this?"

John went to his knees in front of the desk. "I'm not sure. I've seen part of this before, though. At the time we thought it was the drug …" John caught Greg's expression, "no, not that kind of drug, an accidental poisoning a week ago. We had his stomach pumped and he was fine." John realized distantly that someone not familiar with Sherlock's "normal" life would find that last sentence a little disturbing. John reluctantly came to a decision. "Greg, I'm going to contact Mycroft after all. Maybe this is something Sherlock's had for years that we just haven't seen."

"He won't thank you for that, you know."

"I don't think he's in any position right now to care. And I certainly don't." John pulled out his mobile and texted Mycroft. _ **Something's wrong with Sherlock. You need to come to Baker Street now.**_ His phone pinged two minutes later. _**On my way.**_

Before Mycroft arrived, John managed to convince Greg to go home. He suspected that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft would appreciate an audience for this conversation. Greg left on the condition that John call him, no exceptions, to let him know what happened. John settled on his knees in front of the desk and hoped he'd have a resolution to offer.

As Greg left, Sherlock reached the point in his cycle where he reverted to English. Lestrade was right: this was a terrified child, calling for Abel, then sobbing, his fists crammed into his mouth to try and stop the noise. John had seen Sherlock cry before, tears both fake and real: the easy, pretty tears of manipulation, or the choking despair of the rooftop at Barts. But nothing like this—this utter desperation and fear. It was unbearable to listen to, to the point where he tried to touch Sherlock's hands, only to have him gasp and scuttle further away.

The door below abruptly clattered open and swift footsteps came up the stairs. Mycroft strode in, looking distinctly non-Mycroftish. Looking, in fact, somewhat frantic and far from his normal calm, acerbic self. "What's wrong? Did he take something?" Mycroft snapped. Just then he caught sight of Sherlock under the desk, and heard the sounds, and his face… changed. " _Oh_ ", he breathed. It was clear that for Mycroft, at least, this was not something new.

John looked at Mycroft, who slowly went to his knees next to John. "You've seen this, then. You know what this is?"

"Yes, but not in many years. I thought perhaps he had outgrown it, for lack of a better word. The last time this happened, at least the last time I knew of it, was when he was still at uni." Mycroft suddenly moved smoothly under the desk and grabbed Sherlock's arms. Sherlock exploded into motion, fighting mercilessly to break loose while keening high in his throat. And Mycroft—John stared— _Mycroft_ quickly and ruthlessly subdued him without apparent effort, managing to hold Sherlock's thrashing arms and legs in a tight, competent grip. "John." Mycroft snapped. "A sedative is in order, don't you think?" And when John didn't immediately move, "Now, please!"

John, released from his momentary shock, hurried to his kit and injected Sherlock with a dose that would put him under quickly. He put aside his bag and turned to Mycroft, and saw one of Sherlock's expressions on his brother's face. "Really, John. Did you seriously believe that, just because I choose not to use force as a general rule, I am incapable of doing so?" John's face apparently told Mycroft his answer. "Oh, for God's sake. I was Sherlock's first instructor in martial arts, though I am aware that, if he were fully alert, he may well surpass me these days. I no longer practice as I ought."

By now Sherlock was relaxing slowly, his eyes closing and body sagging. Mycroft shifted so that his back was braced against the wall and Sherlock's head laid in his lap. Mycroft's hand rested loosely in Sherlock's hair. "He was a very pretty little boy, as I'm sure you can imagine," he said reflectively. "And we both went to public school—I knew very well the potential for disaster there. I made sure he could protect himself, at least physically, before he entered."

John found himself charmed, oddly—both by Mycroft's unconscious hand movements through Sherlock's curls, and by this window into their shared childhood. But-"What happened? Where did this," and he waved his arm over the tableau of Sherlock under the furniture, "come from? And why now, after so long?"

Mycroft sighed. "As to why now, I can only speculate. We can speak of that shortly. As to how it happened… the spring Sherlock turned 9, he formed a friendship, or a fascination, with a much older boy named Abel. This boy was a little older than I, as a matter of fact, but in another era he would have been referred to as 'simple'. Slow, really, and very childlike. But he had a true gift with animals, especially birds, and that was Sherlock's major interest at the time. And Abel didn't find Sherlock's interests or level of knowledge unusual—after all, virtually everyone knew more than Abel did about everything."

Mycroft shifted slightly, and Sherlock made a mild sound of protest. "One day Sherlock didn't come home for luncheon. My mother was annoyed but not alarmed—even then he had the tendency to become completely enrapt in his interests. But when he still hadn't come home by dinner, my parents became seriously alarmed. My father and the neighbors gathered all of the available folk in the district and went out looking. I, as it happened, was off at a gathering of students from my school, so I wasn't aware until my father sent a car for me at 10 that evening that anything was wrong. By the time I arrived, the police had been called and there were hints of potential foul play. A neighbor child had seen Sherlock that morning with Abel, and Abel was also missing." Mycroft saw John's face. "No, John, it's not what you're thinking. But you're correct, that is certainly what the police were thinking—this pretty little boy, with a much older male friend, going missing."

"Around 2 AM, my mother collapsed. Sherlock gets that from her—the tendency to push the body beyond its limits. My father was dealing with the police, so the handling of the local search fell to me. I had just turned 17 but looked older, and I was tall. No one questioned that I should be in charge. I set up a grid pattern that was considerably more organized than what had gone on before, and we set out again. We searched until well past dawn, with no results. And then, by the grace of God, I realized something. You remember I told you about Sherlock's fascination with birds?" John nodded. "His particular delight was owls. Abel had found a nest in a tumbledown barn on a strip of unused land. Sherlock had told me all about it a couple of weeks before, and insisted I come with him to see. The minute I saw the barn, though, I forbade him ever going again. It was at least a hundred years old if not more—timber framing leaning every which way, parts already collapsed."

Mycroft shifted again. Apparently the floor wasn't as comfortable as it once was.

"As soon as I told Sherlock not to come back, I knew there was a problem. You know how he is—if he wants to do something badly enough, he will do it, full stop. So I had what I thought at the time was a perfect solution. I would frighten him. I would frighten him so badly that he would never think of going back in that barn." Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily. "As I'm sure you suspect, it was a mistake, one that Sherlock and I both paid dearly for. But at the time…well. I told him that barns like that were almost certainly infested with very large, very hungry rats. After all, most barns have them. But once the people were gone, there was no longer any reliable source of grain to eat, so the rats would be hungry and much more likely to turn to other food sources. Sherlock already knew that rats could, and did, eat meat if it was available. So I told him of real reported cases of people falling asleep, or being trapped, in abandoned buildings and being eaten alive by rats. I went into some detail—I was very thorough, pointing out that someone who was trapped would be in the worst possible situation, since they couldn't move out of reach. And I thought, I really thought, that he believed me."

John felt a sense of dread. It was clear now that something terrible had happened to Sherlock in that barn. But it was also clear that Mycroft needed to tell this story, as much for himself as for Sherlock.

"We set out for the barn. I led, since I was the only one familiar with it. When we got there, I think my heart stopped for a moment. It was down. It was rubble—no portion of it higher than 8 feet at most, and wood like kindling everywhere. My first instinct, I confess, was to start crawling through immediately, tearing wood off as I went. Luckily one of the adults knew better—he sent a runner back to the house to have the fire unit called, and the police sent for a mobile crane. While we waited, though, we crawled as close as we dared, and called for both of them. And suddenly we heard this sound—this horrible, choking, sobbing sound that just went on and on. I called to him—I knew it was him—but he was lost to it. My father arrived at some point; he called as well, and I believe they had to restrain him to keep him from climbing inside. Thank God no one thought to go wake my mother."

Mycroft's head was down now, as if speaking only to Sherlock. John had to lean forward to hear.

"They finally reached him about 2 hours later. He was not severely injured—dehydrated, of course, and a broken ankle. But he had been pinned under timbers for almost 20 hours, unable to move more than a few inches. Abel was dead—underneath the main fall of beams about 10 feet away. He had been dead for some time, though from what Sherlock told us, much later, it had not been immediate. He had cried to Sherlock for help for some time, help that Sherlock was unable to give. And then, of course, Sherlock had remembered about the rats." Mycroft stopped talking, and John almost wished that he could quit now. He could see the toll this was taking.

But Mycroft took a deep, shuddering breath and continued, as if to purge himself of it once and for all. "Sherlock was of course very bright, for all I tried to convince him otherwise. And knowing about the rats, he first was concerned that they would attack Abel. But as time passed, Sherlock's mind turned to his own situation, and he realized that he was now in what I had described, in intimate detail, as the worst possible place to be—awake, aware and trapped in the barn with the rats. So he decided that he mustn't make noise—that noise could draw the rats to him."

"But he was, after all, just a terrified little boy, in pain and alone, so he was not completely successful in not crying, and he ended up using his hands to try to stop the sounds. And that," and here Mycroft's voice cracked a bit, "that is the sound you hear. That poor child whose idiot brother frightened him enough to put him in that state, and _didn't remember where he was most likely to be for 10 bloody h_ _ours_." Mycroft's hand shook in Sherlock's curls. John sat and waited. There was nothing he could say that would help. And after a bit, Mycroft shifted, moved, picked Sherlock up like a child and carried him to bed.

Mycroft stayed in Sherlock's room for some time, and John went about picking things up, giving him space to collect himself.

When he came back out, he was "Mycroft" again—armor appropriately in place, calm and collected. "I apologize for putting you through that, John. But you needed to know, and I find that I am not quite as … removed from those events as I would prefer to believe." He strode over and sat carefully in Sherlock's battered chair. "Now, as to where things go from here. He will probably not be himself for a day or two, if past spells are any indication. He may well have an additional episode in that time, but it should be brief and self-limited. If necessary, light sedation is appropriate. He will almost certainly remember none of this, and I would suggest you not tell him I was here until after he has recovered. He will not take it well, I assure you. But at some point he will need to know what happened, and that you are aware of the source. Feel free to share that information with Inspector Lestrade as you feel warranted (and yes, John, of course I know he was here)." John had the grace to smile, and received a slight glint from Mycroft in return.

"Now, as to the larger question—why now? After more than a decade?" Mycroft tented his fingers in what was apparently the Holmes family manner. "You are the medical professional, John, so I defer to your judgment. But I can tell you that, in the past, this occurred after some combination of physical and mental stress. You know, of course, the physical stresses Sherlock has been subject to recently. The mental…well, certainly his homecoming has been stressful, for everyone involved. But I also suspect that much occurred in Sherlock's time away that has challenged his emotional balance. I know that his most recent operation prior to his return certainly did. Has he told you of any of those… adventures?"

John sighed. "No, actually. I told him I didn't need to know." John smiled again, slightly, but Mycroft did not.

Mycroft was clearly choosing his words carefully. "John, I am trying to explain to you that there were events during his time away that were…damaging to Sherlock. He did not walk away from England unscathed to begin with, mentally or physically; he believed that everyone he cared about thought him a fraud, and he knew the potential was there that he might never be able to return. He spent two years virtually alone, in considerable danger. He had very occasional contact with me, but could share nothing of his activities—any possible line of communication could be vulnerable to Moriarty's creatures."

"The only operation I have complete information on, other than Sherlock's own records, is a portion of his last one, before I came to get him out. And if he has led you to believe that he considers it 'old news', he is lying, either to you or to himself. It involved a great deal of death, a great deal of pain, and much of it Sherlock believes he was personally responsible for. It was one of the reasons I chose to extract him when I did. It was certainly not because his presence here was essential. Did you really believe, John, that we were unaware of Lord Moran's ambitions?"

John thought on that one. "How on Earth did you get Sherlock to believe it, then?" But even as he said it he knew the answer. "Oh, I see. He _wanted_ to believe it. He enjoyed the thought that he was the only one who could solve it, and he also desperately wanted a reason to come home."

Mycroft did smile this time. "Yes, precisely. Yet another point I suggest you not raise with him, however."

John realized that they were still dancing around the issue. "So, where does that leave us? What can we do about it? If he were my patient rather than my friend I'd make a strong recommendation of therapy, but we both know how well that would work; he usually mocks me when I go, and I can't imagine a therapist who could deal with him. He'd know everything the therapist was going to say before they said it, and manipulate them every time he went. He's very good at that."

Mycroft sighed. "That is certainly what he did as a child and teenager." Seeing the look on John's face, though, he grew instantly icy. "John, I assure you that our parents took every possible care of Sherlock. _Of course_ they sent him for therapy after his accident. You've met them; do you seriously believe they would disregard such an obvious need?"

John wiped his hands over his face. "Christ, Mycroft, I'm sorry. I don't honestly know what I was thinking. Should have known better."

Mycroft huffed. "Apology accepted. So, back to our…dilemma. I think we are both of a mind that professional intervention is unlikely to succeed, even if Sherlock could be convinced to participate." Mycroft stopped and cut his eyes sideways at John. "I know this is a great deal to ask, but I see no other options. Would you be willing to speak with Sherlock? Try to get him to tell you something of his experiences? I am far from an expert on _feelings."_ John resisted the urge to grin at Mycroft's lip curl as he spoke. "But I am aware that Sherlock is currently at the mercy of his. It's like a poison that needs to be released. And he cares a great deal for you, and respects your opinion, even if it's not always obvious."

John thought about that a bit before answering. He knew how uncomfortable Mycroft must be with all of this, but John was in much the same state himself. "Look, you know I want to help. But I'm out of my depth here—I'm terrible at therapy as a patient, and I'm certainly not qualified to administer it to anyone else."

Mycroft sighed. "No one expects that, John. All I am asking is that you _listen_. We both know there are no guarantees; it's entirely possible that Sherlock will refuse to speak with anyone, including you. I would attempt to influence him but that would almost certainly have the opposite of the intended effect. But I fear doing nothing."

And John couldn't disagree with that. He got up and paced around the room; he suddenly needed to move. "All right. All right. I'll do what I can. You know that. But you have to understand that, whatever Sherlock says to me, I will not be sharing it with you. Under any circumstances. Are we clear on that?"

Mycroft looked mildly offended. "I wouldn't expect otherwise." He paused. "And that is why I will not share what I already know about Sherlock's last operations unless you really feel it necessary. It is not my story to tell."

John chose not to argue with that statement—certainly that wasn't the approach Mycroft had taken at their first meeting, but he liked to believe that Mycroft knew him better now.

Mycroft gathered himself up and prepared to leave, with one last glance into Sherlock's bedroom. And John, knowing that he might well find himself the subject of Mycroft's disdain, couldn't stop himself. "Mycroft? You were only a child yourself, you know." Mycroft gave him one of those meaningless half-smiles and shook his head slightly. He paused at the top of the stairs, though, his back to John. "John…I hope you know how very much I, we, owe you. If you ever need anything, of any kind, you have only to ask." And then he moved briskly down the stairs.

Thirty seconds later, Mary came trotting up them, to find John standing at the top with a bemused expression on his face. "What? Why are you just standing there?" she asked as she came over for a hug.

John grinned. "Well, I'm not sure, but I think I just had a male bonding experience with Mycroft Holmes."

Mary peered out the window. "Was _that_ who that was? Nice car."

John laughed. "Oh yeah, Mycroft always has nice cars. Maybe someday I'll actually ride in one _voluntarily_."


	3. A man of good counsel

John quickly filled Mary in (which led to a few tears on her part), then called Greg Lestrade to give him an edited version as well. Mary busied herself with tea after exclaiming over the state of the kitchen ("John. Are these tapeworms in the fridge?") John slumped on the couch, feeling knackered. Mary just came and settled beside him, waiting for him to speak in his own time.

"You know I need to stay tonight. I'm sorry—it seems like I'm always saying something of the sort lately, but it's true. There's no telling when he'll wake, or what state he'll be in when he does."

"Well of course you do. I'd be ashamed of you if you suggested otherwise." Mary paused, considering. "We can both stay, if you'd like. We neither of us have to go in tomorrow."

John looked around the flat, seeing it through other eyes. "You know, it's not really suited to it—the bedroom upstairs is still full of Sherlock's overflow at the moment. But you could stay and keep me company for a bit. Maybe we can get takeaway and watch telly for a while? I could do with something mindless." In the end Mary stayed until about 10. They heard Sherlock moving in his bedroom at one point, but when John went in to check it was clear Sherlock still wasn't back to normal—he gave no real indication of knowing John, but didn't object when John guided him back to bed.

John stayed awake very late, both because he was listening for Sherlock with half an ear and, well, just because. He finally fell asleep on the sofa somewhere towards dawn, and apparently slept like the dead, since the next thing he knew, he heard voices in the kitchen, one of which was clearly Sherlock's. Mary had brought in breakfast for everyone, including (through sheer accident) some of the chocolate pastries from down the street that Sherlock was fond of. And Sherlock, to John's amazement, was sitting at the table in his dressing gown, willingly eating and laughing with Mary.

Mary noticed he was awake. "Well, and about time, too. It's gone 10, you know."

John wandered over and gave her a quick kiss before turning to Sherlock, who was suddenly suspiciously interested in his pastry. "How are you feeling, then? You gave us quite a scare, you know."

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder but didn't look up. "Surprisingly well. Concussion is a considerable nuisance, but no real damage done, apparently. I was telling Mary that you should both feel free to leave once you woke." Mary laughed. "I don't think he means that quite as rudely as it came out." Sherlock's head did pop up at that, with a look of mild consternation—clearly he really hadn't intended to be rude, for once.

John noticed, though, the slight flutter of Sherlock's eyes at the sudden head movement—clearly things were not quite as rosy as Sherlock wanted them to appear. And it was also very clear that Sherlock had no idea what had happened. So John lied, with a clear conscience. "Well, as to that, we have to stay for a while yet. Unless you want to make another run to A+E, I can't let you go with less than 24 hours observation, and we're well short of that still. So you'll just have to put up with houseguests until then."

They settled into a semi-normal morning routine. John went in to shower and change into the clean clothes Mary had brought, Mary wandered about looking at Sherlock's books, and Sherlock busied himself poring over crime scene photos from the prostitute murders and examining trace evidence under the microscope. As morning turned to afternoon, though, Sherlock started to get frustrated. He had tried to text, and then call, Lestrade, and was being ignored. John, of course, knew exactly why Greg wasn't answering, but wasn't about to volunteer that information just yet—Sherlock seemed a little too fragile for arguments. Finally Sherlock spun from his clue wall and strode off towards his bedroom.

Mary looked up from where she was working on the laptop at the desk. "He's about to do something stupid, you know." John sighed. "Oh, yeah. Know the signs pretty well." They heard Sherlock in the shower, and shortly thereafter he came striding out of his bedroom, barefoot but dressed in trousers and a tight white shirt.

"John, have you heard from Lestrade? He's not answering but it just occurred to me he might have contacted you. He may think I'm still incapacitated."

"That's because you are," John said mildly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Really?" He waved his arms dramatically down his form. "I believe 'incapacitation' usually requires the victim to be prone and incapable, and I'm neither. What I am is annoyed, so would you please call Lestrade and inform him that I will meet him at the last crime site in an hour?" He looked at his mobile phone again. "He's still ignoring me." John hesitated just a hair too long, and Sherlock instantly noticed.

"Oh, of course. It's a _conspiracy_ , isn't it?" he said flatly. "Well, you can inform your co-conspirator that I will be at the scene nonetheless, whether either one of you cares to come or not." He stood up on the sofa and began pulling items off the wall and stuffing them into his pockets. "I appreciate your concern [ _yank_ ] but I am completely recovered [ _yank_ ] and I do not enjoy being treated like a child." He spun back around, stepping off the sofa. His voice rising, he snapped, "And I do not need a keeper, no matter what you, or Lestrade, or my brother may…" His voice cut off and his face went a pasty grey. He sat down abruptly, shooting out his hands on either side to grip the cushions with white knuckles, head down.

John nodded. "Mmm. I can tell just how 'capable' you are. And I'm sure we're all properly impressed by that lovely display of temper." Mary made a slight noise of protest at that, but quieted when John shot her a quelling look' "Now," he snapped. "You made me a promise ten days ago. Do you still intend to keep it?"

The dark head didn't rise, but after a moment an indistinct noise was heard. John, however, was taking no prisoners at this point.

"Sorry? Didn't get that."

"Yes," gritted Sherlock.

"Oh good. Glad to hear it. So I should only have to ask this question once, then. Are you well enough to leave this flat?"

"No," Sherlock huffed, and flopped himself down on the sofa, his back to the room in Sulk Position. Ten minutes later, "sulk" had progressed to "boneless" and Sherlock was once again profoundly asleep.

After a bit, Mary suggested that John make a run to Tesco to get something to warm up for dinner, since she'd already done the shopping once that day. John took the opportunity to stretch his legs and put in a bit of thought about something other than Sherlock for a change. After an hour or so, John figured he was now ready to deal with pouting (since that would almost certainly follow that last confrontation), so he was in a better frame of mind as he carted the shopping up the stairs. That lasted until he reached the top and saw Mary. To be more specific, he saw Mary, now sitting in a chair pulled next to the sofa, with her left hand laced through Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock was lying on his back with eyes tightly closed. John started to speak but saw Mary's warning headshake.

"Oh, John, you're back. Good—I was starting to get peckish," Mary said. And then, in a deceptively casual tone of voice, "Sherlock had a bit of a spell. But we talked for a while and things are fine now."

John followed her lead. "Well, really, Sherlock. You'll do anything to get out of helping with the washing up." And was rewarded by Sherlock's left hand drifting up, shaking a bit, with the middle finger firmly extended.

By the time John had thrown together dinner (warmed-over tikka masala with flat bread) Sherlock had recovered enough to gently disengage his hand from Mary's (she had been very careful to find no particular reason to move until he was ready to do so) and wander over to take a plate, from which he ate three bites and then dissected the bread into a neat pile. When Mary finished, she stood up, stretched, and said, "Well, I think I'd better be getting back. I have to go in tomorrow, unlike you two idle types." She threw a grin at John and Sherlock. "You two can stay here and catch up for a bit—you haven't had much time for that these past days." Wandering casually over out of Sherlock's line of sight to pick up her bag, she jerked her head at the door and rolled her eyes at John.

John took the hint. "Right then. I'll just walk you out to get a taxi. Back in a bit, Sherlock." Sherlock gave no indication he'd heard as the two of them headed down the stairs and outside.

John wasted no time. "OK, then, what happened?"

Mary frowned. "Much like the last time, I expect. He was asleep, and then suddenly he got restless and started talking to himself. Couldn't understand him, but he kept getting more and more upset. So I said his name and shook him—that didn't help, so I grabbed hold of his hand. He tried to pull away at first, but then he, well, I guess he woke up and was in a kind of panic attack. It was awful, John—you know how self-contained he wants to be, and this was just…naked. So I just started talking, about all kinds of things. And after a bit he started answering me, like he needed something to concentrate on. And you saw…it worked, little by little. I was so glad to see you when you got back, but I was also glad you hadn't come back earlier. He hates this, you know. He would have hated even more to do that in front of me if you'd been there as well."

John agreed with that, certainly. "Yeah, I can see that. But now I need to try and find a way to convince him that he needs help. And that help's probably going to require him to talk to me, talk to someone, and I just don't see..."

Mary interrupted, in a fierce tone. "You have to help him, John. I've seen this before, in a way. Someone I worked with. He was a vet as well—not Afghanistan, he was a bit older than you. He starting having flashbacks, I guess you'd say. Kept trying to stop it himself—drinking heavily, drugs, really stupid stuff. And then one day it started up while he was driving a group of people to a job, and he crippled himself and nearly killed three other people when he crashed the car." She looked apologetically at John. "It's most likely PTSD—you know that, right?"

"Yeah, the thought had occurred," John said drily. "And before you point it out, yes, I know. It doesn't go away by itself as a rule." In the end, John had known how this conversation would go before he walked down the stairs. Mary rode off back home, and John trudged reluctantly back up. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was still sitting silently in his chair in the kitchen, staring at his plate. And, also unsurprisingly, he knew exactly what John's conversation with Mary had been about.

"I've been losing time again, haven't I?" he said in a dead voice. His head remained down.

"I suppose that's one way to describe it," John said carefully, pulling a chair up to the table. "What's the last thing you remember before waking up this morning?"

"Coming home with Lestrade from A+E, and then, I suppose, falling asleep. But clearly, with the two of you here, added to my difficulties this afternoon, there's more to it than that."

"I'd say so. You were right out of your head. Greg called me in preference to calling your brother; he was pretty panicked."

Sherlock looked up at that, bitter reproach in his eyes. "But then you did call my brother. You're entirely too calm about this for anything else. So, did Mycroft regale you with the whole story? 'Poor Sherlock, off again'. Did he make sure to point out that he had to come rescue me from uni?" Sherlock's voice was harsh. "He always did enjoy coming to the rescue, even when no one bloody asked him to."

John had had enough. "Look, no one thinks Mycroft's more of a prat than I do. But in this case, he came because I asked him to, he told me what I needed to know and no more, and then he left. End of story. And whether you believe it or not, he had a good suggestion about all of this, which you're not going to like one bit but are going to hear about nonetheless."

Sherlock's stony glare verified that assessment. "Therapy, I presume." His tone made "therapy" an expletive. "Did he also tell you I was sectioned after he collected me from uni? And that therapy did precisely nothing?"

"No, he didn't mention that. But I figured out that therapy wasn't an option all on my lonesome, ta. I can just imagine those sessions—what'd you do, demonstrate a different diagnosis each day?"

Sherlock, before he thought about it, flashed a momentary grin. Of course he had. But—"John," he said hesitantly, dropping his eyes again. "You know that my issues with drugs began when I was at uni. There were certainly other…circumstances in my time there that made them attractive. But they also had a welcome side effect. I stopped losing time."

John waited, but Sherlock didn't say anything else. And then it dawned on him exactly what Sherlock was trying to say. "Please tell me you did not just try to suggest that you resume taking drugs as a viable treatment for this," he snapped. "In what universe does that make sense? It took you years to recover, and you still struggle in the right circumstances."

Sherlock was now wearing what John thought of as The Mask—that cold, affectless face he wore when confronted with something that pushed him past his limits emotionally. "At least when I'm high I know what the hell I'm doing. And I don't generally end up cowering under furniture."

And of course John recognized that a profane Sherlock was Sherlock at the end of his tether. But John also knew that he couldn't let this pass. "No. Just fuck no. And you knew it from the beginning."

Sherlock was silent, and John was content to let that silence stretch as long as it needed to. It was relatively rare that John won a battle of wills with Sherlock, but in the end, he won this one. Sherlock picked up the bread and began crumbling it into even finer pieces. Head down again, he finally huffed, "What do you suggest, then?"

Now it was John's turn to struggle for the right way to say this—the words that would convince Sherlock to do something he would find painful, or embarrassing, or any number of undesirable things. Finally he landed on the simplest explanation. "I think you need to talk to me."

"What?" Sherlock barked, eyebrows popping up under his fringe.

John sighed. "OK, a bit more specific. I think you need to talk to me about what you did over the past two years. I think some of that has come back to haunt you. I know how that feels, and I know that ignoring it doesn't make it go away, it makes it stronger. And I think right now, it's pretty damn strong."

John could read Sherlock's rejection in his body language before he ever said a word. "I did whatever needed doing. It's done with, I'm home, and it's irrelevant."

John really didn't want to drag Mycroft into this, but he had no choice. "Mycroft says that some of your operations were, I believe he said, filled with 'pain and death'. Doesn't sound irrelevant to me."

Sherlock's temper flared again. "Of course he did. As if he knows anything about it. I repeat—it has nothing to do with this, and it's irrelevant to the problem. I've been this way since I was 9, for God's sake."

John, reluctantly, used the last weapon he had. "Sherlock? Who's Pasha?"

The reaction was everything John hoped for, or feared. Sherlock went so pale that John instinctively reached out to keep him from falling from his chair. He blinked rapidly, his throat worked, but no sound came. Finally he spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Where did you hear that name? Mycroft didn't know that name. Anthea _promised_. Where did you…?" He trailed off and stared at John, whose heart clenched at the misery on that face.

"From you, Sherlock." John waited for Sherlock to work through the implications of that.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then—"Oh. I see." But that was all—he sat still, eyes back down, mouth in a mutinous line.

John thought about it, and reluctantly came to a decision. "Right, then. How does it sound if I go first? Would that make it easier?" Silence. Head still down, fingers still nervously working the bread crumbs. John sighed. "Mmm. Where do I start? Oh, I know. Did you know that I was planning to kill myself the night we met?" he said in a conversational tone.

That, at least, got a reaction. Sherlock jerked as if he'd been slapped, his eyes coming up to lock on John's. John looked away—he could do this, but only if he could distance himself a bit from that horrified scrutiny.

He'd done this before. He kept his tone of voice as dispassionate as possible—he knew it wouldn't last, but it was better to start that way, to get through as much as he could before emotion intervened. "You know about my nightmares. God knows, you've heard them enough times. Before I met you, I'd reached the point where I'd do anything—anything—to make them stop, and I very nearly did. But I never told you where they came from. I guess it's time I did."

John was going to walk Sherlock through his last day as a combat surgeon. It wasn't his only source of nightmares, but it was certainly the one that had brought him to his knees four years before.

 ** _Helmand Province, Afghanistan_**

 _It had been a normal enough day, if "normal" actually existed in those circumstances. Hellishly hot, of course. Grit in every possible bodily orifice, and the tedium of driving along the same bloody goat tracks you'd already seen a thousand times. Scenery consisting of rough wasteland, mud houses, the occasional farmer with a donkey. The medical staff took these voluntary patrols in rotation—made a break from the routine of the hospital. Some of John's fellow surgeons hated these tours and refused to do them, but John enjoyed the mild adrenaline rush of climbing into the vehicles and driving off into the unknown._

 _The agenda for the day was to meet up with some local village headsmen in the hopes that they'd be less likely to turn a blind eye to insurgents in the area if they connected British or American soldiers with good things—help with wells, medical assistance, and general security. John's job today was primarily to offer basic medical services as part of the package—infant checks, eye care, that kind of thing. No one expected any kind of action on this particular mission, and for their first two stops that was certainly the case._

 _Their last stop was at a place that was halfway between a village and a true town. It actually had a few buildings of more than one story, and two semi-fortified ones that were used as headquarters for tribal groups. John's patrol of two armored vehicles had pulled into the walled compound of one of these buildings and were just starting to unload supplies when John began to get an uneasy feeling._ _It was hard to decide what bothered him at first, but then he realized—all of the children, the kids who normally swarmed over them at every stop, had vanished. And the men who normally crowded around to help them unload were edging away, leaving the vehicles isolated in the middle of the compound._

 _The first shots, deep and booming, came from a sniper on a nearby hilltop overlooking the town. John, afterward, realized that he actually heard the sound of the shots after the two other officers, Major Campbell and Captain Alford, jerked and fell. Major Campbell had been looking over at John as the shot struck; John would always remember the view of the shot taking off the Major's ear and the right side of his head._

 _John was glad that he hadn't panicked; that his first thought, once he saw that he was now the sole surviving officer, surgeon or not, was to get his men to a defensible position. They were all well-trained, and their immediate reaction on coming under fire was to grab essentials (weapons, ammo, radio) and retreat. John realized, though, that they were currently in a kill box—the high compound walls made a direct escape impossible, they were completely exposed, and they now had fire coming in from two sources. The vehicles would protect them only so long as no one had an RPG to fire at them, and John had no intention of waiting until one showed up. One of the vehicles had already taken multiple shots to the engine compartment, so driving through the attackers wasn't really an option._

 _Like many local fortified houses, this one had an exterior staircase leading to the roof, which had a small parapet wall around it. John made the snap decision to get the men up there—if they could clear it, they could defend it until they could call in a helicopter. An RPG round would still take them out, but he could only hope the locals would be unwilling to destroy their headquarters unless they had to._

 _The plan, such as it was, worked. There were 9 surviving men, some veterans, some not, but none were raw—they understood the situation as well as he did. They took it in groups—2 men ran for the stairs as the rest laid down covering fire. They encountered three locals on the roof and took them out in a quick flurry of automatic fire, and then took over covering fire for the next two men. John was the last man up._

 _The upper parapet was roughly 3 feet high, and thick; tall enough to give cover from the shooters on the ground, but useless against the sniper on the hill. The first shot came as John reached the rooftop; the bullet blasted through the foot-thick mud wall and missed Private Carmichael, currently shouting into the radio, by a hair. Carmichael, to his credit, kept shouting and made a rude gesture in the general direction of the shooter._

 _Sergeant Ashton crouched next to John. "He's most likely not trained as a sniper, really. No spotter, and probably not much ammo, so he'll limit his shots, but that won't do us any bloody good if the chopper can't get here. He just has to keep us pinned down until we run out of ammo ourselves, or until he hits enough of us that the ones on the ground can overrun us."_ _John grimaced. "Yeah, I'd worked that out. How long on the chopper?"_ _Sergeant Ashton looked inquiringly at Carmichael, who'd put the radio down and was huddled against the parapet._

 _"Well, Cap, they said as how they'll do their best to get here quick. Fifteen minutes, minimum—maybe as much as thirty. I told them they might be able to land here on the roof—looks big enough, even if we have to get on the stairs long enough for them to do it. We have some smoke we can make to lead them in and a couple of flares, and they can take out the sniper from the air if he doesn't bugger off. No help till then, though—no other air support in range." Carmichael pointed out across the compound. "We're going to have trouble with those fuckers over there though—think they're trying to figure out another way to get up here, and there's more of them than there is of us."_

 _John and Sergeant Ashton divided the men up into two groups—one, led by Ashton, consisting of those that had both weapons and ammo readily available, took the forward position facing the group firing from across the compound; the rest, including John, moved diagonally opposite, to the top of the stairwell to the ground. The first full attack came against the forward group, a concerted charge towards the abandoned vehicles. Some bright spark on the attacking side had realized that the top of the Humvees would give them the height to reach their targets on the roof._

 _The attackers had more men, but John's people were more disciplined and (as John's training instructor had once put it) "highly fucking motivated". The attack failed and the Afghanis withdrew, dragging multiple casualties and leaving several dead behind. The cost was high for John's men as well, though—two injured, one dead._ _John and Ashton quickly shuffled the men—moving the injured over to him, moving the able-bodied over to take over the position, and weapons, of those downed. John did a quick triage of the wounded. Corporal Hackett had a bullet in his lower abdomen; severe bleeding that John suspected he wouldn't be able to stop. John shoved handfuls of gauze laced with coagulant into the hands of Private Bosworth and shoved those hands down onto Hackett's abdomen, hard. "Keep that there. Don't let go no matter what." Bosworth, face a pasty white, nodded so hard his teeth clattered._

 _The other casualty was Carmichael, who was still clinging grimly to the radio. He'd taken a bullet through the thigh, and John assumed, based on the apparent malformation in the leg and Carmichael's extreme pain, that the femur had likely been hit if not shattered. For both his patients shock was a critical danger, but he could do very little about that—his gear was still down in the Humvee, so all he had was his backpack of combat essentials. He dosed Carmichael with morphine while he worked to stabilize the leg with stretch bandages and an ancient rifle dropped by one of the original defenders of the roof. He glanced over at Hackett; he was already unconscious, and John was afraid that morphine would suppress his breathing too far. Trying to control the bleeding was the best that could be done without surgical capability._

 _Hackett died five minutes later, never regaining consciousness._

 _The roof continued to come under fire from the leading group, enough to keep all of John's men pinned in position. The sniper fired roughly once a minute—apparently Sergeant Ashton had been correct about the low ammo. He was good for someone untrained, certainly—hadn't managed to hit anyone else directly, but his shots were always close enough to throw debris from the parapet wall over the intended victim. John took over the radio; the morphine was making Carmichael too stoned to hold the mike, much less speak coherently._

 _Roughly 15 minutes in, the radio sputtered again, and let John know that the helicopter was 5 minutes out. Sergeant Ashton made smoke to guide them in. About that time, though, the attackers realized that their prey might be slipping through their fingers, and changed their approach._

 _John's group still huddled at the back of the roof next to the entrance to the stairs, with a view of one corner of the compound but very little sightline of anything else below. John could hear movement, though, in between gunshots from the other side of the roof. He drew his pistol and held it loosely in his hand, while directing his remaining uninjured soldier, Private Bosworth, to take Carmichael's weapon. Wouldn't help much—Carmichael only had a partial clip of ammunition left. But John had three clips for his pistol with him and no false modesty—he was very good with that pistol, divisional champion in fact. Not typical for a doctor, of course, but it had come naturally to him from the day he first picked one up, and he enjoyed the competitions so he'd kept it up. He never expected, though, to be the sole line of defense in this kind of situation._

 _It was just about this point that things moved into the starting arena for John's nightmares. He could remember, and was painfully aware of, every sensation, as if they were drawn on his brain cells in indelible ink. Every memory, every dream, recreated those images in perfect and identical detail. He remembers the smells—blood, gunpowder, sweat, manure, and onions from a cooking fire. The hot breeze in his face, lifting little bits of grit and dried mud off the roof. Sounds—he thinks he can hear, very distantly, something that may be the thrum of the helicopter. Carmichael, only half-conscious, muttering to himself and reaching fitfully for the radio._

 _And then, far too close, scuffling sounds from the bottom of the staircase. The sounds resolve into sight—two men, crouching and darting from side to side, push a third form towards the base of the stairs. As John's arm holding his pistol jerks up, he realizes two things simultaneously: first, the third person is holding a grenade in one hand as he darts toward the bottom step; and second, that person is a child—a boy of perhaps twelve, eyes wild with terror._

 _John, without time for real, conscious thought, aims at the child's wrist. No time for anything else; he can't, won't, kill a child knowingly. But he can't let that grenade land on this roof, and he can't be sure that shooting the grenade itself won't have essentially the same effect. He snaps off the shot, and watches in what seems slow-motion as the child's hand flies up, fingers thrown open, and the grenade pops straight up rather than flying off across the compound. John has just enough time to shout "_ ** _grenade!_** _" but not enough to duck completely down below the parapet wall before the grenade hits the fourth step and explodes._

 _John always thought it odd, afterwards, how much the brain could record under those circumstances. In the space of what could have been no more than a second, he saw, clearly saw, the boy torn asunder, as well as the two men huddled behind him. He felt the slamming, percussive blast hit the side of the building, tearing chunks from the parapet wall and sending them whistling across the roof. He felt himself thrust violently to the side, felt the sharp burn as tiny bits of mud wall tore themselves across his cheek and forehead._

 _He became aware that people were shouting, not because he could hear them (he couldn't) but because they were suddenly looming over him, patting him, looking for injuries. He was deaf, completely deaf, could hear nothing but a high-pitched, continuous ringing in his head, but was otherwise mostly unhurt. Small cuts across his face but the bleeding stopped quickly. He realized, though, that something didn't seem right; he watched his troops huddle around him, checking Carmichael (still stoned, completely unconcerned about the explosion) and Bosworth (largish laceration to left arm, bleeding freely but probably not serious), but it all had the air of watching a play in a theater. It didn't seem to have any real connection to him—he was a spectator, nothing more._

 _He sat up and pushed off his rescuers, telling them (probably too loudly—how could he tell?) that he was fine, just deaf. Almost immediately thereafter, Sergeant Ashton confirmed that John had indeed heard the helicopter—he started quickly moving men, and bodies, over to John's corner of the roof to give the chopper a clear area to land. Two men stayed in place along the front wall, laying down sporadic covering fire to deter any last-minute attacks. John's hearing was starting to clear a bit—he couldn't actually hear the copter, but he could feel a rhythmic pulse against his eardrums as it grew closer. He felt a dim pleasure that it looked like they would actually get out of this clusterfuck alive, but no more than that._

 _As the chopper touched down, rotors still turning, Sergeant Ashton organized the loading. But when he tried to lift Carmichael, John stopped him. "No, I have to do it—his leg is too unstable. I'll carry him—you hold onto the rifle barrel to keep it still. If the artery is nicked, too much movement could make it open up further." John bent and swung Carmichael up over his shoulder—thankfully Carmichael was a skinny kid, probably no more than ten stone. Ashton paced beside them, carefully holding the rifle barrel bracing Carmichael's leg. John was two steps from the open door of the copter when he felt a tremendous blow to his back and heard a distant boom. Carmichael made a strangled huff, and John felt his knees go as Carmichael slid off his shoulder. Then there was pain, massive, surging, suffocating pain. And then there was nothing._

John swiped his hand over his damp cheeks and looked over at Sherlock, ghostly pale and staring from across the table. "Of the 12 men who pulled into that compound, 5 died, and I almost joined them. I was left partially crippled in one arm, forced to stop doing the job I loved. It took a very long time for me to accept that there was nothing else I could have done. A child died. I shot him, but the men who pushed him up those stairs with a grenade in his hand killed him just as much as I did. I know that when I'm awake. I don't know that when I dream, and I probably never will."

"Working with you helped me, certainly—gave me some breathing room, something to focus on. But getting to the point where I could tell that story all the way through with my therapist helped more. This makes four times I've told it, now, and each time it gets a little easier. Maybe someday I'll be able to tell it without crying. I doubt it, but maybe. And maybe someday the dreams will go away."

John breathed, long and deep. "So. I showed you mine. Can you show me yours?"

Sherlock looked at him silently for the longest time. And finally, quietly, reluctantly—"All right."


	4. A comely young man of pleasant manners

Summary:

Sherlock purges himself of his first memory. It's as painful as it is cathartic.

Notes:

Fair warning-some things in this chapter are fairly traumatic. Wanted to make sure everyone is aware that there is violence, death and its aftermath here.

Part of this speaks to my own head-canon that Sherlock was a manipulator and strategist in his missions, not an assassin. To me it always seemed illogical to think that-it wouldn't be the best use of his talents, nor would it be in keeping with his personality (sociopath-yeah, right).

A note about formatting-as before, any sections entirely in italics are memories; the section that is both bold and italics is a memory within a memory.

 _ **Budapest- April**_

 _Mycroft had always maintained that_ _coincidence was the last possible reason for events—"the universe is rarely so lazy." In retrospect, then, it was ironic that Sherlock's undoing was almost certainly the result of coincidence, or just plain filthy bad luck. After all, what were the odds that one of the few people who knew Sherlock well enough to be able to recognize him in (an admittedly minimal) disguise should turn up here, a thousand miles from London?_

 _The casino was only about half-full; unusual with an international convention in attendance at the hotel, but then bankers weren't prone to true gambling—at least not since the last round of financial death spirals. Sherlock was subbing for one of the other dealers; he was supposed to be off-duty tonight but took the extra work out of sheer boredom. Pasha told him not to. They were less than 24 hours from wrapping up the last loose ends and turning the trafficking operation over to Interpol. But if Sherlock had to spend one more night sitting in that decrepit farmhouse with those terrified girls (and their children—don't forget the wailing children, usually hungry/tired/frightened) he was going to say or do something unforgiveable to Pasha. Sherlock was losing his last reserves; he couldn't edit his behavior anymore._

 _If Pasha left, he wasn't sure he could continue._

 _It was strange. He'd worked alone for years before John. Of course, part of that time he'd had chemical help. But he'd never been conscious of being alone even when he was clean. John had apparently cracked the lid he'd kept over that awareness, and now Sherlock couldn't seem to go back into the emotional stillness he used to wield like armor. He felt frayed, like important bits of him had gradually eroded away under the constant need to be someone else; that never-ending fear that even the most casual mistake would end not just him, but also John and anyone else he cared about. Pasha (bear-like, sweary and fatherly) was now, without question, on that list._

 _So here Sherlock stood, looking (by intent) like the Archangel Gabriel, waiting for enough customers to sit at his vingt-et-un table and start another game. He had dyed his hair and brows a pale blonde and let his curls grow into pre-Raphaelite ringlets, much longer than usual. He had stopped wearing the contact lenses he'd purchased before leaving England; he'd had three different eye colors in the past eighteen months, but decided his natural, changeably-pale eyes went best with his current appearance._

 _Manipulating his looks was an indulgence. He knew it, knew he'd be safer to try and make himself look unremarkable. But he'd allowed himself this; told himself that as long as he looked completely unlike Sherlock Holmes, it didn't matter. And creating an attractive persona made it easier to subvert the people he needed to manipulate. The casino owner's wife had proven the truth of that. Petra liked very young, blond men, and Sherlock had played on his ability to knock ten years off his true age. Petra assumed he was not long out of uni, which fit him right into her preferred profile, and, occasionally, her bed. At first that aspect had been unsettling, but Petra's enthusiasm, combined with Sherlock's, well, loneliness, had meant that basic biology ultimately triumphed. These activities had also provided an ideal opportunity to hack her husband's computer records unimpeded. Petra was a very sound sleeper._

 _Sherlock stretched and checked his watch: three hours before he could close his table for the night and head back to the farmhouse to pack up for the move to Serbia. From habit he scanned the room, collecting data randomly on everyone he saw without any real intimation of danger. He glanced over to the doorway at a group of new customers, and found himself looking directly into the eyes of Sebastian Wilkes. And Sebastian, after a startled moment, clearly knew exactly what he saw._

 _Oddly enough, Sherlock's first thought was of John. He could hear John's voice: "Sebastian FUCKING Wilkes." John always referred to him that way, in exactly the same tone of voice he used when he mentioned "camel FUCKING spiders". John detested Sebastian; Sherlock had never understood why. It apparently had something to do with Sebastian's treatment of Sherlock. It was very confusing._

 _His second thought was that he had to leave, now, immediately, and he had to get word to Pasha. Sebastian would almost certainly come to Sherlock, and the ensuing commotion would make it clear that the (French/recent uni grad/occasional boytoy) dealer Alaine was in actuality Sherlock Holmes, disgraced and, oh yes, dead, English detective. It would also alert Anatole, Petra's husband and Moriarty compatriot, that Alaine's friend and sometime-drug-dealer Pasha (only twice—Pasha refused to do it again. John can't know._ ** _Delete_** _) was also not likely to be what he seemed. And that would lead, inevitably, to the farmhouse, the girls, the children._

 _Sherlock casually turned his back to the main entrance (where Sebastian, predictably enough, was talking excitedly to his fellow bankers even now) and sidled through the employee entrance at the rear of the casino. He stepped into the office of Amelie, the floor manager, and told her that he needed a replacement for the rest of the evening—migraine. That approach had two advantages: first, Sherlock had already established a tendency to miss shifts because of migraines (real ones, unfortunately—the remnant of a concussion suffered in a bar brawl in Russia); and second, the shock of seeing Sebastian had evidently given him an appropriate pallor. Amelie was quick to agree, but reminded him that he needed to take his uniform down to the dressing rooms for cleaning first._

 _Sherlock hurried down the metal staircase to the lower level, using his mobile phone to ring Pasha at the same time. Damn—no signal. Not too unusual here—phone towers were few and far between, and the thick walls of the hotel/casino made for spotty reception regardless. He would try again as soon as he left the building._

 _He all but ran to the basement changing room, stripping off the uniform and digging in his locker for his clothing. He dressed quickly in skinny jeans, a lightweight grey jumper and a black hoodie, but remembered that he needed to check for any damning materials in his locker—this would be his last shift here, and he'd rather not leave an easy trail. A quick shuffle turned up nothing that could trace back to him. He picked up his uniform and hung it on a hanger, then turned down the hallway to the laundry room. He'd made a point of being harmless and friendly to all of the "backroom" people—you never knew when you'd need an unusual favor from the people most others overlooked. So he wasn't surprised when Maxim, the cleaning attendant, greeted him with a smile. "Leaving early, Alaine? Or are you meeting Petra? She was looking for you earlier."_

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "It's such a burden, you know—being irresistible." He held the uniform out. "Can you get this cleaned? I'm not back on until Monday so there's no rush."_

 _Maxim reached for the hanger, but then the desk phone chimed. "A moment. That's the office line—Amelie is much more important than you!"_

 _Sherlock tried to stand at ease, preventing himself from throwing the uniform down and running out of the building by force of will alone. He was aware his hands were trembling slightly but couldn't seem to stop it. He wanted desperately to call Pasha again but couldn't leave the room without turning in the uniform, and couldn't call from here without having Maxim hear every word. Not an option. Texting was also out—Pasha's elderly mobile phone didn't have that capability._

 _Maxim continued to listen to Amelie, making faces for Sherlock's benefit. But when Sherlock mimed putting the uniform down and leaving, Maxim shook his head firmly and held up his hand in the universal symbol for "wait". Maxim was required to check the suit over for damage before letting employees leave—otherwise Maxim would be responsible for paying for any repairs._

 _Sherlock's nerves chittered urgently when Maxim turned to look at him, apparently in response to something Amelie had said. "I'll send him along," said Maxim, and hung up._

 _Finally, finally, Maxim took the damn uniform and gave Sherlock his return ticket, showing that he'd turned it all in appropriately. But—"Amelie wants to see you before you go. Apparently someone wanted to speak with you?"_

 _This was definitely a Bit Not Good. It was clear that Sebastian had been quick to let management know who "Alaine" was. Sherlock estimated he had at most five minutes before Amelie realized he wasn't coming, and that would almost certainly lead to her calling Anatole. When in doubt, Amelie always called Anatole—she had no real authority to make any decisions on her own, and this situation would clearly be above her pay grade._

 _Sherlock had no intention of doing anything other than taking to his heels as soon as possible, but the last thing he wanted was to give Amelie advance notice of that. So- "I'll head up there right now," he told Maxim, and smiled as he casually opened the door and stepped back out into the grimy basement corridor._

 _As soon as the door closed behind him, Sherlock sprinted down the dimly-lit corridor towards the back door, dialing Pasha as he went. Still no signal. He kept running until he came to one of the main underground corridors that led across to the hotel proper. This was fairly heavily travelled, so he couldn't take the chance of being seen running for no apparent reason. He slowed to a brisk walk, with the air of someone who had Places to Go. It was amazing how many times one could easily traverse forbidden territory that way—looking busy was almost as good a disguise as looking official, most of the time._

 _Just as he reached the intersection of the two corridors, he was aware of movement in the near-darkness to his right. He jerked aside reflexively, but not quickly enough to avoid the large arms that grabbed him and yanked him over into a cluster of three dark-clad men. One of them shoved a needle roughly into his neck, and everything started to fade. The last thought he had was of John's voice one more time. "Sebastian FUCKING Wilkes."_

 _ **Countryside, near Budapest**_

 _The first thing Sherlock was aware of was the heavy smell of onions, mixed with dirt. He then realized that (1) he was lying on a hard wood surface; (2) the surface was jolting and rumbling; (3) there was a secondary smell of diesel; and (4) his head would, most likely, spontaneously explode in the near future. His false migraine had clearly upgraded into the true version. Given his pain level, explosion would be a relief. It was also very cold—his hoodie wasn't geared to an open truck in near-freezing weather._

 _Some time afterward those initial impressions coalesced enough to make him understand that he was in the back of a truck previously used to transport farm produce, with his hands cuffed in front of him. His feet were hobbled with heavy cord, though loosely enough that he thought he could stand if he had to. The truck was barreling across the countryside somewhere—he could see glimpses of the dark outlines of trees through the slats in the side of the truck bed. He recognized the two men he could see through the window in the back of the cab—one was Aron, Anatole's bald, tattooed enforcer with an addiction to cheap cologne, and the other was the hulking form of Tamas, Petra's nephew, who worked as a general errand-boy-cum-janitor around the casino. That was good news—if Sherlock could deal with Aron, Tamas would be no threat. Tamas liked "Alaine", and was very slow, mentally and physically. Sherlock had made a point of being kind to him; he despised the general air of contempt he'd seen directed at Tamas by Anatole and the rest of the staff._

 _After an undetermined time (head pain was making it impossible to estimate accurately, and they'd taken his watch and phone, though not his wallet) the truck clattered to a stop in a brightly-lit barnyard. Sherlock quickly opted to play "unconscious" for the time being—that would give him more time to listen for clues to what Anatole had planned for him, and figure out a way to neutralize Aron. As it happened, the tactic was not as successful as he would have hoped; he briefly smelled Aron's cloud of cologne before Aron simply dropped the tailgate, grabbed Sherlock by the back of the hoodie and dumped him forcibly out onto the dirt of the barnyard. The agonized gasp Sherlock couldn't repress when his head hit the ground put paid to any attempt at remaining "unconscious", though the resultant surge of splintering, nauseating pain made insensibility sound remarkably attractive._

 _Sherlock still intended to wait for his opportunity to deal with Aron, and then convince kindly, trusting Tamas to let him go. That made the shock all the greater when kindly, trusting Tamas strode forward and gave him a full-force kick in the chest with his right combat boot. As Sherlock choked for breath while dealing with the agony of what felt like several cracked ribs, Aron bent forward and grinned. "So, you thought Tamas would still be your friend, right? Oh no, Tamas knows, now. I told him all about what you did to his poor auntie Petra. Forcing yourself on her." He chuckled, looking sideways at the glowering Tamas. "I even explained to him exactly what that meant—he wasn't sure at first, you know." And Tamas drew back his boot again and kicked Sherlock in the side of the head, and Sherlock slammed back into oblivion._

 _He came reluctantly back to consciousness, aware that his surroundings had changed. He slit his eyes just enough to see, focusing on giving no clue that he was now awake. He saw nothing remarkable—he was now slumped in a wooden chair in a dilapidated kitchen. The handcuffs had been shifted; his right hand was now cuffed securely to the side rail of the chair. But he realized dimly that this was a positive; he now had one hand free. Bonus points: his feet were no longer tied either. No fog of cologne, so Aron appeared to be absent; that was also a plus. On the negative side, his migraine (or another concussion?) was now causing blurred vision in addition to head pain, and he was fairly sure at least one of his ribs was broken._

 _He slowly, cautiously raised his head from his chest and opened his eyes enough to see more of the room, and found himself looking directly into the face of Tamas, seated in another kitchen chair five feet away. So much for stealth. Manipulation, then._

 _"Where's Aron?" was not what Sherlock actually planned to lead with, but that's what came out of his mouth. Certainly he wanted to know, but… apparently this was concussion, then, not migraine._

 _Tamas glowered, but answered in a truculent tone. "He went to take care of your mess. That's what he said."_

 _Sherlock's heart momentarily seized as he thought of what that 'mess' almost certainly was, but he managed not to react in any way Tamas could see. "I don't understand," he moaned in as helpless a tone as he could manage. "I didn't make a mess anywhere, Tamas. And I didn't hurt your aunt Petra. I promise." He gave Tamas his most sincere, wide-eyed look._

 _Tamas gave him back a stony glare. "Aron says Auntie told him. I don't believe you. And when Aron comes back we're going to hurt you and make you sorry."_

 _Sherlock couldn't stop himself. "You already hurt me, Tamas." He regretted that as soon as it came out of his mouth—why couldn't he keep control of this conversation? This was normally so easy. Poor Tamas shouldn't be a challenge, surely._

 _Tamas looked momentarily confused and, perhaps, a little ashamed. "I'm not supposed to talk to you", he blurted, and turned his face away like a child. As he turned, Sherlock suddenly saw the pistol tucked carelessly into his waistband._

 _Sherlock was becoming increasingly concerned about the passage of time. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious (either time), and had to, had to speak to Pasha to let him know that Aron was coming. He dimly recognized the feeling shimmering along his nerves as terror—if Aron found Pasha before Sherlock had time to warn him… he had to expedite this conversation. He had to solve this._ _Right, then. Manipulation had been of limited effectiveness. On to brute force, reluctant though he was to harm Tamas._

 _He leaned forward again, squeezed his eyes shut, and gagged. (Harder than he expected to keep that gag from becoming the real thing. Definitely concussion). He looked up at Tamas with beseeching eyes. "Tamas, my head hurts and I'm, I'm sick. Can I at least have some water?"_

 _Ah, excellent. Tamas was looking at him with concern; this was, after all, still his friend "Alaine", and what harm could water do? Tamas shuffled over to the sink, pulled an old mug off the counter and filled it with water, then carried it carefully back towards Sherlock._

 _Sherlock reached his cuffed hand down and grasped the chair leg firmly, then planted both feet firmly on the floor and gathered himself. As Tamas came close and held out the mug, Sherlock stood in one motion and swung the chair around towards Tamas' head and shoulders, gasping "Sorry!" as he connected._

 _The chair exploded into component parts in a satisfying fashion, but from there things took a turn for the worse. Sherlock had clearly miscalculated the effect of the size differential; Tamas had perhaps three inches on him in height, but easily six to seven stone in weight. The blow from the chair staggered him momentarily, but not enough for Sherlock to complete his grab for the pistol in Tamas' waistband._

 _Tamas lunged forward and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, now clearly furious. Sherlock tried to jerk away, but Tamas' mass made it impossible to break free. All Sherlock accomplished was to pull them both off-balance, and they fell to the floor with a stunning crash. Sherlock was half-underneath Tamas, his right hand trapped and still cuffed to a small remnant of the chair. He had managed to keep his head from taking the impact, but that meant his shoulders and already-battered ribs bore the brunt of it, making it difficult to breathe or think._

 _Tamas recovered too quickly. One hand snaked up and grabbed Sherlock's hair, while the other slid around his neck. Tamas began to squeeze Sherlock's throat while periodically slamming his head down by his hair. Sherlock tried frantically to break free but was hindered by the head-slams; he would not stay conscious long if that continued. By now he was sobbing for breath and pulling, pushing, kicking at Tamas. He suddenly remembered the pistol, and forced his free hand in between the two of them. He managed to yank the pistol free and struck Tamas in the temple with it._

 _Tamas grabbed at the pistol with his right hand and fought with Sherlock for it, and kept banging Sherlock's head on the floor with the other and he wouldn't stop and he wouldn't stop and he had the damn pistol with Sherlock's hand and nostopstopstopstop and suddenly Sherlock's hand cracked backwards and the pistol went off. Blood flowed into Sherlock's eyes and his mouth and Tamas wasn't moving and he was on top and…_

 _Sherlock slowly came back to himself, dazed and breathing shallowly, unsure where he was or what had happened. It took several moments to pull sensations together: he was lying on the floor; he was wet, somehow, and had a vile taste in his mouth; there was a soft, very heavy weight along his right side that was making it difficult to breathe, although the pain in his ribs was contributing to that as well. He suddenly realized his eyes were closed. Had to think about that for a minute. Finally remembered how to open them, but still couldn't make sense of what he saw. The room undulated around him, and a distant voice in his head said "oh, yes, concussion" in a mildly interesting way._

 _He waited hopefully to see if the voice was going to submit any additional information, but nothing was forthcoming. There was apparently a disconnect between portions of his brain; he could access sensory information but was struggling to put the data to practical use. Perhaps if he napped a while? Sounded attractive, but there was something nagging him… something about time. Somewhere he needed to be?_

 _He thought about trying to move the weight off, but his mind skittered immediately away from that. Bad, bad, bad. Leave The Weight alone. Don't think about The Weight. Let's nap some more, yeah?_

 _But that nagging feeling about time and a place to go was still there. So he had to think about The Weight, because he was pretty sure he couldn't take The Weight with him. Finally, reluctantly, he turned his head towards The Weight, and memory slammed back into him, sending him gasping and jerking to try and get out from under Tamas' corpse._

 _He managed, after an effort that left him panting and dizzy, to slide out from under the body. That detached, observing part of his brain noted the extensive loss of bone from the skull and dispassionately identified internal brain structures now exposed to view. The remainder of his mind recoiled in horror and despair, and motivated him to scuttle on hands and knees to the far side of the kitchen._

 _He could feel himself start to slide towards a panic attack and ruthlessly suppressed his surging breath in an attempt at calm. The pieces of his mind abruptly slotted back together, though his thoughts were jagged and erratic. And Pasha—he remembered Pasha with a blast of fear that pushed him, swaying and gagging, to his feet. His head pounded and squealed, his vision made the walls and floor slither in and out, but he was up and needed very much to stay that way. He feared he could never get back up again if he fell._

 _He braced his back against the kitchen wall and tried to think rationally. He had to get back to the farmhouse. He needed transport. He needed to know where he was currently, and where that was in relation to the farmhouse. And he had to contact Pasha. Christ, Pasha, the girls, the children._

 _He wiped his face off on his sleeve, shook the last shards of chair arm out of his handcuffs, and made himself check the rest of the house. He staggered through the four rooms looking for a phone, hoping to God he didn't have to search Ta—the corpse. And, of course, found nothing. It took an embarrassingly long time to force himself back into the kitchen. Sentiment._

 _In the end, he managed. He knelt by the body despite the blood; bending over with the walls wavering was just not on. He averted his eyes from the mess at the head while going through pockets, breathing through his mouth as the smell of blood was increasing his nausea. Blood had never bothered him before, but now…_

 _In this instance, finally, he got lucky. In one of the jacket pockets he found a new, working, and extremely expensive satellite phone, complete with GPS. Either someone had been very generous to… to Tamas, damn it, or, more likely, Aron had left it with him to use in the event of trouble. Sherlock immediately dialed Pasha, heart thundering, and had to rest against the wall momentarily when, after six rings, it went to voicemail._

 _"Get everyone out now. They're coming; I'm blown. Have Kolya meet me at the farmhouse." Kolya was Pasha's son, a younger, less bear-like version of Pasha. He was due with the truck at 4AM, and if Sherlock or Pasha weren't there his orders were to proceed to Belgrade alone. Interpol was due at the farmhouse at six, and Sherlock couldn't be there when they arrived._

 _Sherlock looked at the phone again and shivered. It was now just after 11PM, which meant he'd been a captive for two hours. In looking at the GPS he found that he was a little under 20 kilometers from Pasha's farmhouse; that gave him five hours to find transport and get there before Kolya left. He would keep calling Pasha to make sure everyone was safely away, but for his own sake he had to move._

 _He headed out of the house and stumbled down the steps into the barnyard. No vehicle; perhaps in the barn?_

 _The trip to the barn seemed to take much longer than it should have; he was having difficulty tracking time and distance, and the ground moved as if it were boiling slowly under the surface. Thankfully both great doors were open; Sherlock wasn't sure he'd have the strength to open them at the moment._

 _He staggered into the barn, momentarily blinded by the shift between bright security lights and near-darkness; the barn was lit by two dim, bare light bulbs on long wires. He smelled hay, manure, dampness and animals, and could see several stalls on the far side. As he moved closer he could see movement in a couple of stalls. The first held an unhappy Jersey cow who clearly needed milking; Sherlock unlocked the stall, if only because he wasn't sure if anyone would think of the animals once his escape was discovered. The other occupant was both more promising and more daunting: a heavy horse wearing a wool blanket, maybe a Clydesdale, maybe one of the other similar breeds. Gentle, tireless, originally bred to carry knights with a hundredweight of armor on their backs. But not ideal for Sherlock's purposes: even if he could manage to mount, there was no way he had the strength to strap on a saddle—come to that, he didn't see a tack room or any other area that might hold one._

 _Sherlock stared at the horse, and the horse whuffled and stared back. Sherlock's errant memory prodded him suddenly, and he remembered Pasha once again. Dialed the phone—voicemail again. Sherlock left another message: "Call me. As soon as you can." He left the number for the sat phone and hung up. He didn't want to think of Aron already having found Pasha. No reason to think that; they'd been very careful not to leave a trail coming or going. But the silence was worrying Sherlock. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he first called; surely Pasha would have had time to get that message by now?_

 _He needed to move. The only available option was the horse; he clearly couldn't walk that distance in time (and the way the landscape was shimmering around him, likely couldn't walk it at all). So. He stepped into the stall with the horse, which seemed interested rather than annoyed, thank God. Sherlock was a sound rider—he'd ridden often as a child. But he thought it unlikely he could handle an uncooperative heavy horse at the best of times, and certainly not now._

 _He was relieved to see a halter and reins hanging over a post. This he could handle; the horse lowered its head obediently, though Sherlock had a bad moment when he had to reach high to put the crownpiece behind the ears and his ribs howled at him. He leaned his palms against the horse's warm, blanketed side until he could catch his breath, while the horse mouthed at his curls in a friendly fashion._

 _He managed, after two painful attempts, to mount the horse by dint of climbing up on the stall railings (in the first attempt he lost the reins and had to climb down to regain them. The horse was perplexed but patient). It was unlike any other horse he had ridden; more like sitting atop a high, firm sofa than anything else, wide and deep, especially with the upholstery-like tartan blanket. His legs stuck out on either side to a ridiculous degree; it was like riding on his first pony, at 4._

 _He gave the reins a tug and jolted his heels a bit into the wide sides, and the horse moved ponderously out of the barn and into the barnyard. The lights remained on next to the barn and house, but once they left the yard they would move into the blackness of the countryside. Sherlock turned the GPS app to "voice" so that he didn't have to rely on his increasingly problematic vision, but made an attempt to memorize the map in case he lost either signal or battery power en route._

 _He swung the horse out of the barnyard and was quickly enveloped in a chilly darkness. A half-moon, yes, but clouds occluded much of the light. The small lingering patches of snow here and there did add a certain amount of reflection, though; just enough that the horse clopped confidently along the dirt road. Sherlock initially tried to speed the horse up to a canter but his head couldn't stand the jolting – he nearly blacked out again. He tugged on the reins in desperation and the horse settled into a smooth, though slow, walk._

 _A new (or rather, recurring) problem then surfaced: Sherlock was again overwhelmed by the smell of blood, this time from his soaked hoodie. He struggled to ignore it; then he had to stop suddenly and heave over the side of the horse, which left him exhausted and dizzy. He tried to continue, but five minutes later found himself once again gagging. In desperation he peeled off the hoodie and threw it away; better cold than this._

 _And it was cold, bitterly so. Perhaps a degree or so below freezing, judging by the amount of snow still drifted in hollows along the sides of the road. Yet another reason why he needed to keep moving—his light jumper would do little to protect him, and he couldn't get off the horse to take the blanket since he'd never be able to get back on. At least the horse should be warm enough to keep going, and he did get some heat from the animal's body if nothing else. His hands were becoming numb, though, so he pulled the ends of his sleeves as far over his fingers as they would go, and then tucked the fingers of his left hand up under the edge of the horse blanket as well, holding the reins with his right._

 _He abruptly startled as Pasha once again surfaced in his erratic memory. He knew he had lost his ability to accurately track time, but was increasingly concerned that Pasha had not called him back. He pulled the reins in to stop the horse and pulled the phone out of his pocket, hitting "redial" and waiting. Once again the call went to voicemail, but he felt compelled to leave another message even though he was sure the first two? three? had gone through. "Pasha. I'm on a horse. I'm coming. Tell Kolya. Call me. Please." That made sense. Did it make sense?_

 _While he had the phone out, he checked the GPS again. It told him soothingly in Hungarian that he had come 5 kilometers and still needed to continue straight ahead. That was helpful, since that was also the only way he could go unless he wanted to set off cross-country. Judging by the map he had memorized, he only needed to make two turns to reach the farmhouse, and both were a fair distance away at this point. He put the phone back in his pocket, picked up the reins and clucked at the horse to get it moving again._

 _He started shivering badly. He began to alternately flex and release his muscles—anything to keep blood moving. His torso and ribs were stiffening, though, so he had to limit his efforts to his arms and legs. He was becoming confused; he couldn't remember when he had last called. He stopped the horse and pulled out the phone again, but couldn't figure out how to pull up his record of outgoing calls. That was alarming; shouldn't he be able to do that? He tried again, but gave up when he realized he couldn't read the display clearly anyway. He hit redial. "Pasha? I don't know where I am. Do you know where you are? I think… does someone need to come get me? I have a horse." He was queasily aware that something about that sounded wrong._

 _Sometime later he decided that he should just talk to Pasha. Surely Pasha could hear him?_ ** _He realizes he is no longer on the road; he is back in Russia, waiting with Pasha in the truck. Pasha is a driver for one of Moriarty's lesser operations, a smuggling run that delivers guns to the Chechen mafia in exchange for opium or processed heroin. Very lucrative, clearly, and the money is used to fund a vast number of other activities across Eastern Europe._**

 _ **Pasha, though, is an old-fashioned criminal: while he had no problem with running guns, he had been outraged to find that the payment was in the form of drugs rather than cash. That had been Sherlock's "in"— Pasha's daughter had died of an overdose, so he was receptive when Sherlock suggested that breaking up the operation might be in everyone's best interests. Sherlock couldn't believe his luck in meeting Pasha—a chance meeting with someone intimate with one of his future targets, and sympathetic to boot.**_

 _**It was a very simple plan in the end—basically Pasha had found another "agent" interested in taking over the operation on a cash-only (i.e., non-drugs) basis. The right information was placed in the right hands, a trap was laid, and now Sherlock and Pasha have made their delivery/pickup and are due to be "hijacked" along with all of the other trucks in the fleet. The new "agent" would be making simultaneous raids on each of the warehouses and headquarters. It was immaculately planned; even Sherlock was impressed by the level of organization involved. Criminals, yes, but thorough criminals.**_

 _ **Everything seemed to be going well. They had already heard frantic messages from other drivers as trucks were attacked; the intent was to make this as bloodless as possible (death was bad for business as a rule), but Sherlock had few illusions about how some of the drivers would end up. These were Moriarty's tools, but only at several removes. He had resigned himself to collateral damage to the semi-innocent, but felt little joy at the prospect.**_

 _ **Pasha, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He firmly believed that this was an appropriate revenge for his daughter's death. Russia bred a certain romanticism, certainly, but also intense pragmatism in the face of the inevitable. This trade needed to stop; the other drivers knew they were transporting poison; therefore, their removal was necessary. He was so ecstatic, in fact, that he insisted they stop at a bar along the way for beer and food, since they were not due to be "overtaken" for another two hours. He laughingly told Sherlock that it was unbecoming for him to worry about being late for a hijacking.**_

 _ **And of course, Pasha being Pasha, he couldn't be satisfied with just one beer. He had several, and insisted Sherlock drink as well (though Sherlock drank one to every three of Pasha's). And of course the bar ultimately erupted in a brawl; every Russian bar seemed to have at least two**_ ** _brawls a night, judging by the dives Pasha regularly dragged Sherlock to. This time, though, things went more pear-shaped than usual. In the process of heading towards the door, Sherlock turned his back on the combatants and took a full bottle to the back of his head, immediately losing consciousness. So Pasha carried him out of the bar and laid him on the truck seat. Pasha then continued on the route to their rendezvous._**

 _ **Sherlock is now awake to see their "hijackers" arriving, and watches in a nauseous daze as Pasha greets the two men, Chechens by their accents. Sherlock's head hurts badly enough that he is having trouble following the conversation, but it's clear early on that something isn't right.**_

 _ **The Chechens argue with Pasha, gesturing angrily at Sherlock. Pasha is playing his "dumb Cossack" role, trying to insist that Sherlock is his cousin. The Chechens know better; no family in Pasha's village ever produced an exotic creature like Sherlock, currently sporting ginger curls and turquoise eyes. Unfortunately Sherlock's too dizzy to argue effectively, and his accent keeps slipping. The Chechens shove Pasha out of the way, reach into the truck and drag Sherlock out while he bats feebly at them. And then Pasha strides up behind them, shoves a pistol into the backs of their necks in turn and pulls the trigger…**_

 _…and Sherlock abruptly came to himself, disoriented and shivering. He was back on the horse—had apparently passed out for a time, or fallen asleep. He hadn't fallen off, thank God, and the horse had assumed that he was ready to stop for the night and simply ambled over to the side of the road to nibble on trees. Sherlock had fallen forward over his hands; the right, handcuffs and all, still held the reins and the phone. No way of telling how long he'd been out; it was now a little after 2AM. He checked the GPS; still 6 kilometers to the first turn. His mind was somewhat clearer, and he abruptly thought of Pasha. He looked at the phone again—no messages. The fear was now oppressive; he could think of no reason why Pasha wouldn't have called him. It had been three hours, ample time to clear everyone out and get on the road._

 _He knew there was no reason for it, but he called again. "Pasha. Please call me. Please. I'm coming." He didn't put the phone away; he felt better holding it in his hand, even though his constant shivering meant that he had to concentrate hard to keep from dropping it._

 _He tried again to urge the horse to a faster pace. The great beast was willing enough, but the jarring was so great that Sherlock could only tolerate it for five minutes at a time before his vision flickered in and out. He set himself a schedule: five minutes walking, five minutes canter. It felt like a kind of waking nightmare—painfully cold and dark, with no landmarks visible to measure progress against. Every third cycle he tried again to call Pasha, though he eventually realized that he didn't always actually use the phone to do so._

 _Finally, finally, he reached the first turning. From here, he had only 3 kilometers to the last turn. His shivering was now violent, strong enough that he put the phone away for fear he'd drop it. He shook his arms and legs harder to try and generate heat, but knew that he would soon reach the time when the shivering would stop and he would fall asleep; if that happened he would never wake. He took to reciting the periodic table, then the Fibonacci sequence-anything to retain focus._

 _At last he reached the final turn. Unfortunately, he also reached the end of his strength. His shivering was slowing, and he was finding it almost impossible to stay upright on the horse. He had only one real chance now—get to his destination quickly or not at all. He fumbled the phone out to check the GPS again—3 kilometers to go. At a walk it would take thirty to forty-five minutes. He simply didn't have that long. So, speed. At a gallop, even a slowish gallop from the heavy horse, he could be there in ten minutes, perhaps less. All he had to do was stay on the horse._

 _He had to rely on the horse's instincts. The road was a straight shot—the farmhouse was the only habitation along this stretch, and the house and barn would almost certainly be brightly lit, as they always left the generator running all night. He had to hope that, even if he wasn't able to direct it, the horse would head for those lights when it saw them. Barns, after all, meant hay and warmth, and the horse had to be almost as cold as he was._

 _He made the best preparations he could. He tied the reins in a loose loop around his right wrist, leaving plenty of slack on the bit, and shoved the phone far down in his pocket. Then he carefully stretched forward, panting against the excruciating pain in his ribs. He extended both arms along the horse's barrel, grabbed firm handfuls of mane and lowered his head to the warm neck. Then he briskly kicked both feet into the horse's sides, and the horse gave an insulted bugle and lurched into a thudding gallop down the dark road._

 _It was…Sherlock really didn't have words for it. Agonizing came close—certainly pain was there, his head, his ribs shrieking and pulsing. But there was also a dreamlike element—the increased speed meant that his compromised vision couldn't keep up, and the dark shapes around him smeared into each other. Breathing grew more difficult as the muscles and nerves around his damaged ribs spasmed. He found himself counting his own heartbeats for focus, or maybe for comfort—it was his earliest coping mechanism as a child, and he reverted to it when all other forms fell away._

 _Time blurred and stretched, and he lost track of the world. But then something changed; the jarring slowed, and he could see light. He knew that was important, but at first wasn't sure why. Eventually, though, connections came, and he saw. The farmhouse was here. He could stop now. The relief made his eyes sting and his mouth tremble._

 _The horse stopped in the farmyard, clearly wanting the barn but not sure how to enter. Sherlock sat up and swayed drunkenly, but managed to get both legs on the left side of the horse. He took the reins off his wrist and slid/fell to the ground. His knees immediately folded, throwing him to the packed dirt. The horse hovered anxiously, nuzzling at his hair._

 _At first he tried to call. Easier to get Pasha to come to him than to try to stand. He shouted Pasha's name, then screamed, while his head and ribs screamed in harmony. The horse shied away at the noise, but no one came. So, Pasha and the girls had headed out as planned. That was good, anyway._

 _He had to get up. With Pasha and the girls gone, all he had to do was get inside, make sure the evidence for Interpol was still safe, and wait for Kolya with the truck. But most of all, he had to get warm._ _So. Hands and knees first. That was…unpleasant. He panted for breath while blood sang through his ears, but he stayed conscious and upright, so that was progress. The next step was getting his feet under him and standing, and the best option for that was the horse, which had sidled back closer to him once he stopped shouting._

 _The reins dangled from the horse's neck, and Sherlock managed to grab them before the horse moved away. That wouldn't help him get up, but at least he could keep the horse beside him while he worked his way to his feet. He reached up and grabbed the horse blanket with his right hand and the top of the horse's leg with his left; the horse snorted but allowed it. Then he pulled with both arms and shoved with his legs, and somehow, somehow, made it to a shaky standing position slumped against the horse's chest. He rested there until he was sure he wouldn't fall again, then forced his head up. It made sense to head for the back door; that way he could lean on the horse most of the way and lead it to the barn at the same time. Couldn't leave it out here in the cold—he felt a fair amount of fondness for the great lump, all things considered._

 _He held the reins loosely and rested his right arm over the horse's back, and clucked to get the animal moving. True to form, the horse willingly accepted this unorthodox technique and let itself be guided simply by the pressure of Sherlock's body. Sherlock lurched along, leaning heavily against the horse, until they reached the end of the barn nearest the back door. Thankfully one of the barn doors stood open and a light shone from inside, so Sherlock looped the reins up onto the horse's back and tucked them under the blanket for now. Then he pushed himself to a full standing position and gently smacked the horse's withers, and it ambled gratefully into the barn._ _Sherlock turned towards the back door to the farmhouse._

 _ **The Farmhouse**_

 _Sherlock pushed open the door. He was fervently glad it wasn't locked; his keys were God knew where, and picking a lock right now was definitely beyond his capabilities. The house was so warm; it was amazing, marvelous. He almost sat down in the kitchen floor just to enjoy it for a bit, but that distant feeling of "something to do" was back, nagging again._

 _His faulty memory finally spat out what was needed: check on the Interpol evidence. Before Kolya showed up with the truck, Sherlock needed to be sure the packet with the memory stick was securely in place, anchored inside a brick in the fireplace. He wavered off towards the decrepit parlor, hoping none of the girls had been stupid enough to build a fire in there. The giant wood-fired cookstove easily warmed the small house and had its fire tended round the clock, but Sherlock had twice come home to find a fire burning in the parlor as well. He'd been staggeringly rude about it; hopefully the lesson stuck._

 _The parlor was still full of scattered possessions—magazines, toys, a forgotten jumper in the corner of one of the tatty chairs. But no fire in the grate, thankfully, and when Sherlock leaned against the hearth and pulled out the loose brick he saw the packet and the memory stick, just as he had hoped. His message to Interpol had given the precise location of the data; when they arrived at 6, this particular leg of Moriarty's web would be swept away. Sherlock felt relief that the evidence was still there, but not accomplishment; he'd lost that, some time ago. Now all he felt was exhaustion and, to be truthful, a small amount of despair. He had begun to fear he would never reach the end; every rock he turned over unearthed yet another pool of decay to be drained, and the tasks he undertook were never clean. People were ruined, people died, people wished they had, and some days Sherlock was one of them. Mycroft would be appalled._

 _He was suddenly conscious of the world again, not sure how long he'd been leaning against the hearth, thinking of nothing in particular. He fumbled through his pockets and fished out the phone—a little past 3AM. Kolya would be here in an hour; Sherlock needed to gather his few possessions and change into warmer clothes. He pushed off from the hearth, wobbled until his balance was secure, and walked carefully down the hallway towards the bedrooms._

 _He realized, much later, that his subconscious had recognized the smell before he was consciously aware, and set off his newly-acquired aversive reaction to blood. He was already retching in the hallway when the scent sank in—the normal odor of the house (wood smoke, cooked cabbage and an underlay of cheap perfume) and the metallic tang of blood that swirled over the top. When his stomach finally gave in, conceding that there was nothing to bring up, he forced himself to walk into the first bedroom, the one he shared with Pasha. It was empty, though there were signs of a struggle. No blood here, then._

 _He turned back into the hall towards the other, larger bedroom, the one that had served as a dormitory for the three girls and their children. The scent was stronger here; his stomach gave another harsh push up his throat before he wrestled the reflex under control._

 _He saw the feet first: bare, twisted in the remnants of a long nightgown. He recognized the garment, and then the girl it tried to cover. Her name was Anya; she was 15, not terribly attractive, not very bright. But she had a warm heart that would do John Watson proud, despite Sherlock's all-too-apparent impatience with her, with all of the girls, in fact. When Sherlock had migraines, she would sit outside his darkened room and sing, very softly, until he slept._

 _No more singing._

 _Sherlock lost time again. When he was next aware, he was back in the kitchen, sitting on the floor and shaking. He needed to not be in this house anymore. He needed warmer clothes but could not make himself go back to the bedrooms. He wasn't able to think clearly enough to deduce what had happened in any detail, but clearly Aron had found the farmhouse before Sherlock's first message to Pasha. He hoped the clear signs of struggle meant that the others had gotten away, despite the loss of Anya. There was no evidence of a firefight, and no other bodies, but Pasha would never have allowed himself to be taken prisoner. The lack of additional blood, then, was a good sign._

 _He remembered, thankfully, that Pasha had left some outdoor gear in the barn, warm clothes he used for dirty jobs outside. They wouldn't fit—much too big, much too short—but a down coat and snow trousers were a lot more useful right now than tight jeans and a thin jumper. He could also try to get the bridle off the horse while he was there, and with the generator still running the space heater would make the barn almost as warm as the house. He could wait for Kolya out there._

 _He managed, painfully, to get back down the steps to the barnyard without falling, and limped slowly to the open barn door. He was greeted by the affectionate horse, lingering just inside the door for some reason. He took the reins and started to lead the horse to one of the empty stalls, but the animal refused to move, twitching its ears nervously. He gave up—not enough energy for this, and he needed the warm clothing more than the horse needed a stall. He wanted desperately to pull on the coat and lie down in the musty hay, but knew he had to stay awake to be sure Kolya didn't leave without him._

 _He staggered into the tack room, where the old garments hung from hooks, pulled the filthy coat and trousers on over his clothes, then decided to go sit near the space heater at the back of the barn. He wouldn't be comfortable—didn't think he could be comfortable at this juncture—but at least he'd finally be warm._

 _It was dark at the back; the one unshielded light strung from the rafters didn't reach much beyond the first 15 feet, so the back half of the barn was a field of shadows. But the heater was back there; Pasha had a small workbench set up, and a ramshackle chair and table he used when he was doing close work on broken equipment. Sherlock tottered slowly in the dim light, supporting himself by one hand on the walls of the empty stalls. He was distantly aware of a small, very small, sound—a kind of light tapping noise that got slightly louder as he neared the large open space around Pasha's workbench._

 _He suddenly found himself gagging again, and smelled blood, fresh and close, but could see nothing—it was very dark, but there were no obvious sources for the smell, no bodies, no signs of struggle. As from a great distance he realized that something was very wrong. And then something gently touched his head. He flinched badly and came very near to falling, but saw nothing and no one. It happened again, on his shoulder this time. He staggered carefully in a circle, confused and alarmed. And then something, something, made him look up. He put out an arm against the workbench and tilted his head up carefully. And—"Oh." But that really wasn't enough to say, was it? To respond to this?_

 _Because there was Pasha, strung from the rafters like Christ on the cross. He was still bleeding slightly, the blood pattering gently on the hay-covered wood of the barn floor. But clearly no heart was pumping the blood out; this was, Sherlock thought, more like drainage, as the great gaping slash across Pasha's throat emptied the last drops. Sherlock couldn't look away, but didn't want to see, see the missing eyes, and the hands, the fingers were…_

Sherlock abruptly hurtled out of the chair, spun and vomited into the sink, gasping and sobbing and clutching the counter. And then, just as John reached him, he put his head down on his forearms, and wept like a lost child.

Later, much later, Sherlock sat on the sofa, an old afghan around his shoulders and a warm cup of tea between his shaking hands (second attempt—the first, distressingly, came right back up). John sat next to him, their shoulders and legs nearly touching. Sherlock made no attempt at eye contact, nor did John expect it. But he did finally speak, in a rough, flat tone.

"Kolya found me, found us, when he arrived. I have no memory of it; I was not conscious. Not for nearly a week, in fact. He put me in the truck and drove me to Belgrade, as he had promised his father he would do. He took me to a charity hospital, carried me inside and left. I never saw him again." John made some small movement; Sherlock lifted his eyes briefly. "I don't blame him. I got his father killed."

John sighed. "No, you didn't, but I don't expect you to believe that yet."

Sherlock continued, as if John had never spoken. "He did do one other thing: he called the emergency number I had given Pasha, the one to a secure line for Mycroft's people. Mycroft couldn't come himself, obviously. He sent Anthea—she posed as my sister, and had me moved to a private MI6 facility. You understand this is only what she told me later—I was unaware of any of it. Fractured skull; three broken ribs; exposure.

They ended up not doing surgery, but they considered it before Anthea got there—had already cut off part of my hair, in fact. That ended up working in my favor—Aron's people were looking for a man with long blond hair, but by the time I was moved no one remembered my hair color when I arrived since it was dealt with in A&E. I understand it was also matted with a great deal of blood, so even on arrival it would have been hard to tell the color."

John flinched again. Sherlock grimaced. "Stop. I'm fine now." John huffed, and Sherlock smiled slightly. "Well, relatively speaking."

Sherlock resumed his tale, looking back down at his trembling hands. "I spent almost a month in hospital—developed pneumonia, on top of everything else." He cut his eyes over at John. "I have reflected since that you were proven right about my eating and sleeping habits—apparently being two stone underweight and sleep-deprived does have an effect on the healing process after all. I never intended to tell you, though—I knew you'd never let me live it down."

"Quite right," John said smugly. Sherlock flashed another quick, sideways grin.

Sherlock shifted, stretching out and leaning his head on the back of the sofa, eyes closed. "Let's see. What else?" He handed the cup of tea blindly to John, who sighed again but took it without comment. "When I woke up, I had Anthea send people to the farmhouse. Kolya had taken the horse and… and… _his father_." Sherlock stopped; his face crumpled momentarily but he made no sound. John silently reached over and took his hand; Sherlock didn't pull away. They sat that way for several minutes, until Sherlock took a shaky breath and continued.

"Anthea's people buried Anya under the trees by the farmhouse; Anthea asked me, but as far as I knew Anya had no family. And I think that she had been at least somewhat happy there. The other girls and the children were gone without a trace." He opened those pale eyes and looked at John. "They were a _commodity_ , you see? We, Pasha, had rescued them when we left Russia, had Kolya take them off the smuggling trucks when the "hijackings" took place—they'd been on their way to slavery, essentially. Anatole or Aron could sell the girls to the Chechens as prostitutes, or to the new owners of the gun-running operation. The children—infants could go to illegal overseas adoption agencies, and older ones could be used as drug mules and held as surety for their mothers' cooperation. And when they got old enough, they too could be sold to the Chechens. All grist to the mill," he said with a bitter smile. John squeezed his hand but kept silent.

"When I was well enough, I made Anthea take me back to the farmhouse. And I burned it and the barn to the ground. Then I went back to Belgrade, Anthea left, and I went after the last link in the chain."

John waited, long enough to make sure Sherlock was finished. "Do you want to talk about that part now?" he asked, very gently.

"No," said Sherlock, in an exhausted rasp. His eyes were shut once more.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand again and tugged to get his attention, and Sherlock opened his eyes. "I'm glad you did this, Sherlock. I'm glad you trusted me enough to do it." He released Sherlock's hand and rose, moving to stand directly in front of him. "Now in a minute I'm going to give you a sedative, and you're going to bed. But before that, I have to ask you a question, and I want you to think about it for a moment before you answer. But I need an _honest_ answer. Can you do that?"

Sherlock gave him a wary nod.

"All right, then. I know this was hard, and I know you're physically exhausted. But, in here," and John reached over and patted Sherlock lightly on the chest, "how do you feel? About all this?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, visibly considering, and a surprised look came over his face. And—"Better", he breathed.


	5. Blood drew to blood

Summary:

Sherlock tries to address one of his issues from his time away. Of course, he has to do it Sherlock-style.

Notes:

A much shorter chapter this time, and (a bit) light-hearted. Consider it a palate cleanser of sorts.

John was tied up for the next couple of weeks; his time tending to Sherlock meant that he had a backlog of hours to make up at the surgery. He spoke to Sherlock several times a week on the phone, though, and things seemed to be going well. The trafficking case continued to simmer in the background, but now there was an increasing trickle of private clients taking notice. Sherlock was once again creeping into the limelight, and was clearly starting to settle back into something approaching his old life.

Thursday mornings, John always got to the surgery early—it was usually their lightest day, and if he was lucky he could catch up on his paperwork and slope off work a little early. He was sitting at his desk working methodically through files when his mobile phone chirped. He looked at the display—Greg Lestrade. "Greg? What on Earth are you doing calling so early? I know you mentioned you were on nights this week. You have to sleep sometime, you know."

Greg groaned. "Don't I wish. I'm home, at least. But look, I wanted… well, I thought maybe you should go and check on Sherlock this morning if you could."

John felt his heart rate speed up a bit. "What's wrong? I just spoke to him yesterday afternoon. He seemed fine. Something go off?"

Greg hesitated. "No, nothing serious. It's just - well, ah. Sherlock puked at my crime scene last night. Twice."

John's jaw dropped. "What, really? I can't imagine…what was the scene like?" John had horrific visions of ritual sacrifice, babies on spikes…

Greg paused for a minute. "Well, that's just it. It wasn't that bad, really. Lots of blood, certainly—poor sod got his throat cut pretty thoroughly, so arterial spray, you know, and completely bled out on the floor, probably less than an hour before we got there. But nothing Sherlock hasn't seen a hundred times and slept like a baby afterward. Well, he would have if he actually _slept._ " Greg waited while John gave an appreciative chuckle.

"But anyway. He comes on the scene like normal, swanning about in his coat. He walks into the room where the body is, stops in the doorway, and then spins around, makes it out to the street and, well, there's his dinner. I kept folks away from him, asked him if he was OK. He insisted he was. After five minutes or so he comes back in. So I'm standing beside him, and I notice he keeps jerking a bit. 'Bout the time I realize what he's actually doing is _gagging_ , he runs back outside and up it comes again. He was really peaky and shaky, then, so I put him in a car and sent him home. He didn't even complain. So what I'm thinking is, he's got some sort of flu, and the last thing I want is for him to insist on coming back out with us again today and give it to everyone else. And you and I both know, John, he'll drag himself out unless someone stops him."

John snorted. "As if he'll listen to me. If he's feeling that bad, though, I can probably convince him. If nothing else, I can point out that it's a little hard on his image."

Greg laughed. "Yeah, bit tough to look mysterious and cool when you're hurling on your shoes, innit?"

In the end, John decided to take an early, probably long, lunch. He got to Baker Street just after 10, and met Mrs. Hudson in the entryway as she was going out. After kissing her cheek, he asked her how things had been going.

She frowned. "Well, dear, he's been doing better. You know that. And he came down and ate breakfast with me this morning. Actually ate, like he was hungry. But then a delivery came, and he went back upstairs—said it was for an experiment. Just a bit ago, though, well… I thought I heard him groaning. And when I started to go upstairs he called down and told me not to come up. So I'm glad you're here."

John considered that. "Greg Lestrade thought he had a stomach bug—said he was ill last night. Maybe he thought he was better and tried to eat too soon?"

Mrs. Hudson tutted. "That would be just like him, wouldn't it? You go on up, then—maybe you can convince him to rest up a bit, if that's the problem. I'll be back in an hour or so, I'm just doing the shopping. You can call me if either of you need me to get anything, invalid food or the like." She gave him a hug and headed off down the street. John turned and went up those familiar 17 steps, automatically avoiding the two that creaked.

As he neared the top of the stairs, his instincts had him on high alert before he realized what had set him off: a strong odor of blood, lots of it. He dashed up the last two steps and stopped short at the scene in the kitchen. Sherlock stood facing the sink, a huge silver bowl on the counter next to him. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the sink, and his shoulders jerked repeatedly. The sour smell of vomit floated above the blood now. "The hell?" John said, moving towards Sherlock. He glanced into the sink—a small amount of what was apparently Sherlock's half-digested breakfast lay in the bottom. And the bowl was full of…"Blood? What in the…?"

He grasped Sherlock's shoulders and turned him around, to see a whiter-than-white face and pinched lips. Sherlock answered, in a peculiar hitching fashion. "Blood. Aversion. I can't… _oh Christ_!" and he spun back towards the sink, gasping, shoulders still jerking.

The other penny dropped. "Oh, for— _here_." John grabbed Sherlock's arm in one hand and reached under the sink for a bucket with the other, then dragged him over and pushed him down on the sofa. He shoved the bucket into Sherlock's lap.

"So. You're still having trouble with this reaction to the smell of blood, right? That's what happened at Greg's crime scene last night?" Sherlock scowled, lips still pressed tightly together but no longer gagging—apparently the scent wasn't so problematic now that he was further away. "And yes, he called me. Get over it. He was concerned you were ill." Sherlock scowled louder.

"And you decided that you would try to overcome this by using controlled exposure. But of course, you being, well, _you_ , the correct way to do this would be to expose yourself to _two fucking gallons_ of blood at once, rather than do it in increments. Am I wrong?"

Sherlock gave him a Death Glare from the sofa that could drop birds from the sky. "The process is very simple," Sherlock spat out. "No worse than allergy jabs. I simply have to endure it until this _stops_." That last sounded, to Sherlock's obvious discomfort, much more distressed than angry. John forced himself not to react to that. Sherlock would not take pity well.

"Right, then. I'm going to teach you how to do this properly. But before that, I'm going to clean up this mess, and dump this blood. You might want to go up to my old bedroom when I do that—dumping it will make the scent very strong again." Sherlock, of course, ignored that suggestion, ostentatiously putting the bucket on the floor and hunching back into the sofa, sulking.

John rinsed down the mess in the sink, then carefully reached over to grasp the huge bowl. He looked over at Sherlock. "Last chance—you really should leave for a bit." Sherlock gave him the _"how do you manage to breathe and walk simultaneously?"_ look. John sighed, turned the water on again, and dumped the blood into the sink.

From the corner of his eye, John saw the flurry of movement from the sofa as Sherlock grabbed desperately for the bucket, stuck his head in it and lost the rest of his breakfast. He continued to heave and spit while John rinsed the bowl. John went and opened the windows in the sitting room a tiny bit, despite the cold, to let in more air. John then grabbed a flannel, rinsed it in cool water and wrung it out. He walked back over to the sofa, where Sherlock had finally stopped gagging but now sat back, panting, with the bucket in his hands. John set the bucket aside, gently pushed Sherlock down to lie flat on the couch, and put the flannel over his eyes.

John rinsed the bucket, put everything away, and sat in his chair to wait. After ten minutes, Sherlock exhaled loudly, took the flannel off his eyes, and sat up. "So? You ready to listen now?" said John. Sherlock, a light flush on his cheekbones, nodded. John stood up and went to get his kit from the entryway. He dug around in his bag and came up with three items that he held up for Sherlock's perusal. "OK, here. I have two capped sample tubes. We're going to go over to Barts and get you a bag of blood and some liquid anticoagulant. You fill the tube, put in the anticoagulant, and carry it with you. Every few minutes you open it, give it a shake, and take a deep sniff. Make sure you're near the loo the first few times, just in case. If you keep up with it, I doubt it'll take more than a week to work through this. And…," he reached and handed over the third item, "here's a clamshell mask. Until you can smell the tube without gagging, you wear the mask at crime scenes-it should block the scent. You can tell the Met staff that you have a virus that takes a while to get rid of—I'll back you up. They'll believe it since they know you were ill last night."

Sherlock's face broke into one of his rare, crooked smiles, the genuine kind. "John, that's _perfect_. I don't even have to explain anything to Lestrade." He gave John the kind of indulgent look you give a particularly bright 6-year-old.

John thought about it for a bit, realized what he wanted to say was going to ruin Sherlock's current happy mood, but… "Sherlock? You really should talk to Lestrade about all of this."

The scowl was back. "No need," snapped Sherlock. "Once I conquer this _issue_ ," and he gave a wave and a sneer that was the image of Mycroft, "I'll be able to move back into my normal mode of operation. It's ridiculous to attach more importance to it than it requires."

John wasn't having it. "Sherlock. He _saw_ you, after he brought you home that day. He knows you're, well, not quite yourself, and he knows that something serious is going on with you."

Sherlock was silent, his face closed and mouth tight and unhappy. John tried again. "I know. You hate this. I hated it as well, when I thought everyone who met me thought of me as 'damaged'. But I also learned, and _you taught me this_ , that having people close to you know something of what was going on made it easier. Not easy, but easier. Think about this, too: Mary and I already know. Mycroft knows. Mrs. Hudson knows. So what's Greg? One more person, but one more person who's important to you, and one who cares for you. And is very worried about you."

Sherlock heaved a sigh, and then managed to shock John by saying, simply, "I know."

Notes:

Special bonus points if anyone recognizes the (tiny) Eddie Izzard reference!


	6. Live for that friend

Summary:

Greg Lestrade likes Sherlock Holmes. Always has. Which makes it all the harder to deal with when a troubling case makes it clear just how deep Sherlock's problems go.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Greg Lestrade _liked_ Sherlock Holmes. Always had. Which made it easier, in the early days, to deal with what a complete, utter little prick he could be when he wanted to (and he usually wanted to). For whatever reason, Sherlock decided that Greg was someone he could let into that small world he'd built around himself, even though it had been years before Greg realized how small that world really was. When Sherlock "died", Greg was shocked, not by the fact that he grieved, but rather by the intensity of that grief.

It took him a while, again, to figure out why he felt that way—his horror at his own part in Sherlock's leap was always there, of course, but that couldn't entirely explain the days he spent staring at the walls, aching and sad. He couldn't spend time around John. Much though he really wanted to help, putting the two of them together seemed to increase, rather than diminish, their mutual pain. And eventually Greg realized that what he felt for Sherlock, over the years, had become _love_. In a way. Just a bit. Not romantic (God—he flinched at the very idea of being romantically involved with the great petulant train wreck that was Sherlock), but, for lack of a better word, paternal. Only a bit over fifteen years between them, granted, but Sherlock had always made him feel like Methuselah.

When Sherlock returned and cornered him in the parking garage, Greg came within a whisker of enacting an emotional scene that would have embarrassed himself and likely sent Sherlock scuttling for the exit. The hug went on _much_ longer than the typical "manly" model called for, but Greg noticed that Sherlock didn't try to pull away until Greg was ready to release him, so he clearly wasn't the only one who was, well, _moved_.

The whole thing with Greg's name—Greg knew very well that Sherlock was having him on. At this point it was a gesture of affection, in Sherlock-ese, and Christ, did it feel good to hear it again. What made it all the funnier was the fact that John, who knew Sherlock better than anyone, still hadn't twigged to the joke and chastised Sherlock _every damn time._

When Sherlock came back to work, Greg was almost giddy. He didn't care how rude Sherlock was (and he _was_ rude, to everyone except Donovan, whom he refused to acknowledge in any way). Greg was just so fucking happy he grinned almost continuously. Of course the first week, without John, was rough. Sherlock reminded Greg a bit of the bad time, just before—that air of sadness. And then that peculiar bit of talking to John as if he were there. But once John came around, Sherlock was himself again, in some ways a better self than he was before the Fall — a little more mellow; still arrogant and amazing, but with a slightly more visible sense of humor. His time away, wherever he'd been, had made him grow up a little.

The incident after Sherlock's injury, though, shook Greg from the false image he'd built of Sherlock's time away. He had blithely assumed, based solely on Sherlock's outward mien, that the lost two years had been a typical Sherlock escapade: occasional madness, ongoing bursts of brilliance, and the odd flesh wound to deal with. Drama, certainly, theatrics, maybe even some true heroics here and there. In retrospect, he of all people should have known that Sherlock was always hiding _something_.

That horrifying episode at Sherlock's flat was the death knell for Greg's naïve belief that Sherlock's exile had been an adventure. Something Bad had clearly come to Sherlock. John's limited explanation only made Greg more uneasy, but he could do little more than urge John, repeatedly, to make sure Sherlock got some help, whatever help he would accept.

Two weeks after Sherlock's episode of hurling at the crime scene, he and John were swept up in Greg's crisis du jour, the search for a brutal but cunning murderer preying on women in the theatre district. Two dead in the past three weeks, six over the past four months, little physical evidence beyond the knife wounds and the bodies themselves. After the last death, Greg called Sherlock in, despite his misgivings about Sherlock's mental state—Greg's own people were at a loss, and he didn't want to be called to view yet another pitiful, drained girl dumped in a rubbish tip without having exhausted every resource to stop it happening.

The only thing they could say definitively was that it had something to do with the theatre. All of the women had either had tickets for a West End production, or had been a member of a cast or crew. Other than that, they had no common ground—different ages, different body types, different races. John and Sherlock spent the better part of a day chasing down every possible lead, but all were dead ends. The killings had clearly been done elsewhere and the bodies, perfectly clean, naked and bloodless, dumped in random rubbish tips for disposal in the wee hours, with no witnesses. Conveniently, all of the tips were in areas with no CCTV coverage.

Sherlock was approaching meltdown from sheer frustration, but he kept going obsessively over the same ground that had been covered 20 times before. Victims killed with a single, near-surgical knife wound to the carotid. Sexually assaulted, probably post-mortem, but cleaned thereafter so carefully that no usable biological evidence remained. Some minor bruises, probably from physical restraint. Large knife; blood drained completely, probably using some form of mortuary equipment. And nothing else. Absolutely nothing.

At 11 in the evening, just as the West End shows were ending and disgorging patrons and casts onto dark, wet streets, they suddenly hit on something. Re-interviewing family, friends and co-workers, for lack of any other useful clues, had established that three out of the six victims had mentioned that they intended to stop for food on the way home. But a review of the autopsies indicated that none of the victims had eaten recently at the time of their deaths, so it seemed that they never made it to that final snack. It was John, oddly enough, who finally asked the right question.

"Sherlock, what if they _did_ make it to that last meal?" he asked suddenly. Sherlock's head popped up from CCTV clips he'd been watching for the third time. He made an inquisitive sound. Greg turned away from the doorway, where he'd been preparing to go for yet more awful coffee. John spoke slowly, thinking it through as he went. "We know they intended to stop. We know they didn't actually eat anything. So maybe those two facts are connected?"

Sherlock gave John one of those mad, blazing smiles very few people ever got to see. "John, that's _brilliant_." He spun around and grabbed his coat and scarf, John jumping up quickly to avoid being left behind. Sherlock looked expectantly at Greg. "Lestrade, are you coming? There can't be many eating establishments still open at this hour, and the radius to search is quite small. Get your least hopeless constables out with pictures of the victims and have them canvas the restaurants within a mile of the theatre district, starting right now. We need to _move_ if we want to prevent another murder."

To her credit, Sally Donovan was already making calls and rallying PCs, handing out copies of the pictures and sorting out street assignments. Sherlock ignored her, nonetheless, as he, John and Greg swept out the door. Greg pulled rank on the way to the garage, and got a PC to drive them to the West End, lights and siren blaring. He checked in by phone with Donovan, and she gave them the names and addresses of three late-night eating spots within walking distance of the relevant theatres.

Once they got to the first location, Greg had the PC park the car and they all set off on foot. Greg sent John and PC Camden off to the closest restaurant, while he and Sherlock walked on to the second. Within fifteen minutes, both eating spots had been eliminated; John's closed at 11:30, too early for at least one of the victims to have made it there, and the second location was a gay pub, nice enough place but not what they were looking for. They took the time to show the pictures, but even if the women had made it this far it was unlikely they would have gone in; it wasn't apt to attract six straight females. The pub did have its compensation, though, and despite the grim circumstances Greg waited with a certain amount of glee for John to arrive so he could tell him all about it.

Sherlock had texted John to meet them at the last location, a fairly well-known bistro called "The Meat Locker". Greg waited out front for John and PC Camden while Sherlock strode back and forth muttering under his breath. Five minutes later John and Camden walked up, and Greg watched as John stared at Sherlock, stopped in his tracks, and looked over at Greg. Sherlock was in a massive strop, somehow managing to look simultaneously sulky and agitated.

Greg grinned. "So, we mentioned our spot was a gay pub, right?" John nodded, still watching Sherlock flit back and forth like an irritated cat. "Well, we go in, separate and start showing the pictures about. And then I turn around and see His Highness over there get propositioned and sort of groped at the same time." John is struggling not to laugh, and PC Camden doesn't know where to look. "I did manage to stop Sherlock before the bloke's arm actually _broke_ , though, so it's all good, right?" Greg beamed over at Sherlock, who spun and made a rude gesture before jerking open the door of the restaurant and stomping inside. John rolled his eyes and followed, and Greg motioned PC Camden along, still chuckling.

The restaurant was nice. Small but not cramped, with a fairly large number of patrons despite the late hour. Mellow lighting and warm leather chairs, small intimate tables next to a tastefully antique wood bar area that was in keeping with its setting in a historic stone building. A low-key individual (' _Hi-I'm-Derek-the-manager_ ', expressed as a single word) met them, only to recoil slightly at Sherlock's "normal people" smile. John grinned to himself; it always amused him when people found that plastic smile disturbing.

Derek-the-manager quickly pointed out the few regular customers who might have seen the girls, and John and PC Camden headed over to show them the pictures. Sherlock and Lestrade started with the kitchen staff, which basically meant that Greg held out the pictures while Sherlock wandered around picking up obscure kitchen equipment. None of the staff were of any help, and Lestrade was about ready to pack it in when Sherlock turned to the chef and asked, "Who cuts your meat?"

The chef, in the midst of something complicated involving a small butane torch, didn't reply. Before Sherlock could make an issue of it, Derek-the-manager chimed in. "We have our own master butcher—it's our claim to fame, really. We let patrons select the cuts, and Albert cuts, trims, whatever's needed." Sherlock raised an inquiring eyebrow. It took a second before Derek realized that was actually a question. "Oh. Albert Comstock. He's in the back, though he may have already left. He goes off-duty at midnight." He made no move to show them where "in the back" Albert might be.

Sherlock had exhausted his reserve of civility for the day. "Then could you possibly take us to him, or do you require a secret handshake of some kind first?" he snapped. Derek flinched but still hesitated. "Albert's, well, he doesn't like us letting people back into the butchery. He's quite firm about it, you see, and since he owns half of the restaurant I really can't…"

Greg's reserve of civility was also gone, apparently. He held up his badge. "Think you can, actually." Derek-the-manager quailed again, then stammered, "I could…go see if he's still here?"

"Or you could take us back to the butchery and then take yourself off to another part of the building," Sherlock said rudely, giving a dismissive flap of his hand. "It's a small place, and I assume you're reasonably familiar with it. Try not to get lost on the way."

Derek flushed, swallowed, then dropped his chin and gestured towards a door in the back of the dining room. "It's left down the hall, just past the loo. Just don't… don't tell him I told you." Then he scuttled off towards the front of the restaurant. Greg raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who shrugged and headed towards the back door. Greg caught John's eye and motioned for him and PC Camden to come along.

The doorway led them to a dimly-lit corridor that took them back several centuries. This was clearly the oldest part of the building—thick stone walls and that peculiar, damp-and-stone smell of very old places. Sherlock glanced down the corridor, taking it all in silently: two plain wood doors, one marked as a unisex toilet. The second door was unmarked, and further along was an opening that was now bricked over. Sherlock started towards the unmarked door but Greg beat him to it, earning an exasperated huff from Sherlock for his trouble. "Don't need to pull you off anyone else this evening, Sherlock," Greg said mildly. Sherlock gave him an offended look but stayed silent.

The door opened into a clean, well-lit room that looked like it could serve as a hospital operating theatre in a pinch. White-painted walls, shining stainless-steel tables, and a vast quantity of surgical-quality knives and bone saws. Huge, gleaming stainless steel meat lockers along the right. The entire left-hand wall was covered with open wood shelving that was attached to very old oak paneling. At the back, a stout modern door, now open, led to what was probably old mews or an alleyway. As John and PC Camden followed them into the room, a man suddenly stepped back in through the doorway. A large man. A _very_ large man—perhaps six and a half feet, maybe 17, 18 stone. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw them, and his brows knit. "What the hell are you doing in my place?" he snapped, and moved aggressively forward.

Before the huge man could get up a good head of steam, Greg decided to stop any unpleasantness before it started. He snapped open his badge, and spoke politely but firmly. "Scotland Yard, Mr. Comstock. We'd like to show you some photographs and ask you a couple of questions."

The man was hostile, but not stupid. He visibly controlled himself, and when he spoke it was in a deceptively mild voice. "I can look at your pictures now, but we can speak tomorrow, I assume. I'm already off duty for the night, and I want to get off home." He started to move back towards the door and seemed startled to find Sherlock suddenly in his path.

"So, what was it, then?" drawled Sherlock, wandering away from Albert and gliding around the edges of the room. Albert blinked, disconcerted. "Sorry? I thought you wanted to show me some photos…" Sherlock smirked. "Oh, I don't think there's much point to that, is there? It's clear you know exactly who you'd be looking at. The only question in my mind," and Sherlock gazed intently into Albert's eyes, while Albert flushed and clenched his fists abruptly, "is why? Misogyny? Reaction to rejection? Or just a garden-variety psychopath?"

Greg Lestrade never ceased to find people surprising. Albert Comstock seemed like your typical bully-boy at first glance: loud, aggressive and not overly bright. But this, this was unexpected. Albert looked right at Sherlock, in his full deductive mode, and _smiled_. Greg's hackles rose, and John apparently had a similar reaction, as he edged carefully over nearer to Sherlock.

Sherlock wasn't oblivious, but wasn't inclined to back down. "Is there something amusing? I would think that an imminent arrest for six murders would tend to dampen the mood," he said smoothly. He continued to glide in an apparently aimless way around the perimeter of the room while John frowned after him. Comstock actually laughed, a deep rumble of amusement. "Arrest? Really? I'm a pacifist- wouldn't hurt a fly. Who am I supposed to have killed?" He swept his arm around the room. "And you'd be hard-put to find anything here that would lead you to think I had. I keep a very clean shop, don't you think?" He swept his arms around at the spotless floors, the gleaming tables and knives. "You could eat off this floor."

Sherlock stopped suddenly. "Oh. _Oh_. You could, couldn't you?" he said, looking at the gleaming tile floors. He turned a slightly manic grin on Comstock. "You know, that really was ill-advised of you. I knew there was something wrong with this room but couldn't quite define it. But the floor—that was the key. Thank you for that." He strode confidently over to the bank of open shelving, thrusting his hands along one particular section of the wall of paneling.

"These old buildings, you know—often have sections that are closed off for one reason or another. Just like the bricked-over doorway next to this room. But it makes you wonder—in this small a venue, why would a restaurant owner not want to exploit every available bit of space?" He continued to work his way along the wall, feeling the oak panels and poking occasionally. "And then the floor—the whole of the floor is covered in these white, shining tiles. All very clean—certainly very hygienic. But isn't it interesting—there are a couple of very, very faint lines, there, in an arc, where the glaze on the tile is barely scuffed. As if something heavy was repeatedly slid across it, but clearly something that was anchored in place since the line follows only one path—no deviations or extra lines. Something like…" and he reached in one last time, pushed and turned, and a section of the shelving, still attached to the oak paneling, swung ponderously open like a huge door, "that." He spun back and moved over next to Comstock with a shark-like grin.

And then three things happened, fast enough that Greg could never say, afterward, in what order they actually occurred.

One thing: the great door swung open all the way, exposing a good-sized room equipped much like the one in which they stood—but different in the sense that one of the stainless steel tables was occupied by a young woman, gagged, tied and hooked up to some form of equipment that had tubing running into her neck, tubing with red fluid running through it.

Another thing: John ran to the young woman, reaching towards her neck and the tubing, while PC Camden radioed frantically for an ambulance and assistance.

And the last thing—well, two things together, actually: in a heartbeat, Albert Comstock snaked out his long arms, snagging a long, wicked knife with one and using the other big meaty hand to grab one side of Sherlock's head and slam it full-force into the side of the huge door. As Sherlock's knees buckled, Comstock spun, slashing the knife at Greg to clear the way, and sped out the open door to the alleyway.

Sherlock was up in seconds, blood coursing down from his hairline, but moving fast and sure out the door. Greg barked "John?" while PC Camden took off after Sherlock. John looked up briefly. "Go," he snapped. "She's alive. I want to keep her that way." Greg nodded and hurtled out the back door.

The alleyway was old, certainly as old as the building—real cobblestones underfoot, wet and filthy. Greg could hear running footsteps, splashing through standing water, and he took off, phoning Donovan as he ran. "Sally. After our suspect near Dolphin Lane—behind that last restaurant on the list. Get people moving, now—our suspect is Albert Comstock, maybe 6'5", 18 stone, brown hair, brown eyes, armed with a very big knife and strong as fuck. Bring Tasers and firearms. Sherlock and Camden are in pursuit already." As he rang off he heard Sally start to howl orders. He shoved his phone back in his coat and ran.

He thundered down two alleys and passed several narrow, dark streets before he heard shouting ahead. He came to an open, dimly-lit square where three narrow lanes intersected, and skidded to a stop at a harrowing tableau. Albert Comstock crouched over PC Camden, fingers gripping his hair and that great bloody knife held to his throat. Camden's eyes were shut, his lips in a taut line. Sherlock knelt ten feet away, head down, blood smeared down the left side of his face and coating his jacket. His hands rested on the wet pavement on either side of his knees. Lestrade couldn't tell if he had fallen, or knelt at Comstock's behest.

Comstock looked up at Greg and gave that cold, cold smile again. "Oh, good. The gang's all here." He shook PC Camden's head like a rat and nodded over at Sherlock. "Tall, dark and posh over there realizes he can't reach me before I gut this one. Do you agree?"

Greg nodded slowly, keeping Comstock's attention while watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, that's true. So where are we? What do we need to do for you to let that boy go?"

Comstock smirked. "Quite simple, really. I want you to handcuff Pretty Boy and you together, and then use Junior's cuffs, here, to handcuff the both of you to that stair railing over there behind you. Then I'm going to take your phones, and I'll take Junior with me for a bit. Maybe I won't even hurt him—haven't quite decided."

Greg started to respond, then heard a slight noise to his right, and turned his head to see Sherlock collapse on the wet pavement. "Jesus! Sherlock?" Greg snapped his head back over to Comstock, who was looking on, still amused. "Can I see to him? I won't move towards you." He edged over towards Sherlock, and Comstock allowed it, still holding firmly to Camden.

Sherlock had fallen on his right side, with his back facing Comstock. His curls were flattened to his face, and blood continued to slide sluggishly down his temple and cheek, where purplish swelling was already expanding rapidly. Greg knelt and started to peel one eyelid up, when both eyes suddenly opened. Sherlock's pale gaze slid warningly towards Comstock, and Greg forced himself to continue to check Sherlock's skull and pulse. Sherlock's gaze then moved down towards his hands, and Greg saw the loose cobblestone clenched in his right fist.

Greg thought a minute, then stood up and turned to Comstock. "He's out cold and I can't wake him. How about this—I'll pick him up and carry him to the rail, then handcuff us together, all right? And you can toss PC Camden's cuffs to us then." Comstock nodded. "Fair enough. Get on with it—my arm's getting tired, you know." He smirked again.

Greg thought furiously about the logistics of this—the best approach to give Sherlock his chance. He knew they'd only get one.

Greg moved carefully around to Sherlock's back, so that his body completely blocked Comstock's view of Sherlock's torso. He bent over and fished his right arm under Sherlock's waist, feeling Sherlock's muscles tense at the touch. He lifted with a grunt, and pulled Sherlock to an almost-standing position, then slipped under Sherlock's left arm so that it rested across Greg's shoulders, with Greg's right arm still around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's right arm, his hand clutching the cobblestone, was carefully draped in front of his body, out of Comstock's view. Greg grasped Sherlock's left hand where it draped over his shoulders and lifted a bit more to get Sherlock's feet under him, then felt Sherlock's fingers tighten briefly and release—one, two…

On "three", Greg let go of Sherlock and dropped to the ground. Sherlock spun, drew his right hand back, and launched the stone at Comstock's head with all his strength. It connected with a hollow thunk and Comstock dropped in his tracks, the knife still clutched in his hand. PC Camden scuttled quickly away, panting. Before Greg could react, Sherlock strode over to where a semi-conscious Comstock still gripped the knife and stomped down on his wrist, hard. Bones broke with an audible crack and the knife dropped to the pavement. Greg flinched but said nothing, as Sherlock walked over and helped Camden up.

Abruptly Sherlock swayed and would have fallen if Camden hadn't grabbed his arm. Greg sighed, then walked over and helped Sherlock lean against the wall of the building behind them. "Stay here, alright? I've got help on the way." "I don't need help," Sherlock muttered. "No, 'course not," Greg said, mentally rolling his eyes. "Just… stay there."

Camden was standing over Comstock uncertainly. He looked over as Greg approached. "I was going to cuff him. But his wrist's broken, and it's swelling, so…" He held the cuffs and waited. Greg nodded. "Yeah, OK. I don't think he's going anywhere. Call Donovan and tell her where we are. She can't be far now."

Greg pulled out his own phone and called John, who, not surprisingly, answered on the first ring. Greg quickly filled John in, and let him know that Sherlock would be heading to A+E. John thought that an excellent idea, especially since he was currently at A+E with their victim anyway and could meet them there. As he hung up, Greg saw Sherlock push away from the wall and come towards him—presumably to complain about the upcoming hospital trip. And then came something that featured in Greg's nightmares for a number of years to come—one of those dreams where terrible things happen that you're powerless to stop.

As Sherlock started to walk over to Greg, staggering a bit, he passed within 3 feet of the supposedly unconscious Comstock. Like something out of one of those cheap horror films, Comstock suddenly sprang up, knife in one good hand, and launched himself at Sherlock while Greg jerked forward, knowing he would be too late. And then, then-Sherlock _moved_. He grabbed Comstock's rising arm, wrenched, spun, dropped, and suddenly he wasn't Sherlock, but something _other_. It was beautiful, and feral, and fucking terrifying to watch—Sherlock's Something Bad had come out to play. Before Greg could reach him, before Greg could _breathe_ , Sherlock had swept Comstock's legs out from under him, dislocated his shoulder, and had his hand under Comstock's chin and that god-awful knife under his throat and then he just… stopped. His arm vibrated with tension but his grip on both Comstock and the knife were rock-solid. Greg didn't dare move, for fear any action would force Sherlock over that edge, and the knife would move, and more than one life would be lost.

PC Camden, wisely, stayed dead still and silent as well. One minute, two, and Sherlock still held his position, while Comstock moaned. Greg dared to move into Sherlock's sightline, finally, and felt a queasy roll in his stomach at the lack of recognition in those ice-grey eyes. But there was definitely hesitation. He could work with that.

Very, very slowly he edged forward, hands out to each side. He spoke softly, in tones he used to reassure small, frightened children. "Sherlock? You can stop now, son—you got him. Let's put the knife down, yeah?" Sherlock gave no sign of hearing him. His pupils were blown wide and black, and Greg recognized that look—that was _terror_. This had nothing to do with Albert Comstock, and everything to do with wherever, _whenever_ , Sherlock was in his head.

Greg decided to try another tactic—wait it out, and see if something of the real Sherlock seeped back in through the cracks. He carefully lowered himself to the wet pavement in front of the two men, talking softly all the while. "I'm right here. Let's put the knife down, tie this bastard up, and then you can rest a bit, OK? Bet that head hurts like a bitch, donnit?" Greg was heartened to see Sherlock's arm relax a tiny amount. Those strange eyes blinked, quite slowly, and the dark curls suddenly wobbled a bit as Sherlock gave a quick, whole-body shudder. Greg felt a moment's hope that Sherlock would simply pass out and this would be done with. Concussion he could deal with—murder, not so much.

And it might have come to that—clearly Sherlock's strength was ebbing fast. But Greg had always had piss-poor luck when it really mattered, and this was no exception. Just as Sherlock started to sag, just as the arm started to lower and the hand under Comstock's chin eased off, two panda cars came screaming up the nearby street, no doubt containing Donovan and the reinforcements. Sherlock's head snapped back up, and that hand tightened, and Sherlock reached abruptly back towards Comstock's neck with the knife, moving to strike.

Greg, in absolute desperation, reached back into their shared past. " _Lock_!" he bellowed, " _Drop it!_ " even as he prepared to launch himself forward.

It may have been pain and blood loss; it might have been the use of that old, old nickname, given to a skinny posh boy, all eyes and misery and erratic brilliance. But from whatever source, Sherlock _stopped_ , and Greg went light-headed from sheer relief. He could see reason bleed back into Sherlock's eyes. Just as Greg reached forward to take the knife from Sherlock's grasp, though, those eyes changed again—and this time they held pure horror as his gaze lowered to the knife in his hand.

Before Greg could touch him, Sherlock flinched, gasped, and threw the knife violently away to clatter across the pavement. And then he jerked himself up, spun around, and ran.

Greg didn't hesitate. He whirled to Camden. "Wait for Donovan—tell her where I went. Take off that bastard's belt and tie his hands—fuck his wrist and shoulder." Then Greg took off after Sherlock.


	7. But now I repent

Notes:

The action picks up immediately where the previous chapter left off.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Greg didn't have to run very far. Sherlock's strength, already fading in the encounter with Comstock, gave out in an alleyway a few hundred yards away. Greg tore around a corner and nearly tripped over him, huddled against the wall with his knees pulled to his chest. He was shaking, violently, and his eyes were closed, teeth clenched. The left side of his face looked like he'd been hit with a brick, and his left eye ridge was swelling badly.

Greg let out a gusty sigh and knelt on the grimy pavement—his trousers were past saving at this point anyway. He carefully put one hand on a bony shoulder. "All right then?" he said quietly.

Sherlock gave a shaky, bitter laugh. "Do I seem 'all right' to you?" His teeth chattered, and his swollen left eye wouldn't open now. The right, though, gave Lestrade an exhausted glare.

Greg hesitated, not sure where he should take this conversation. But—"Sherlock. While you were away. Did you—have you…," he took a deep breath. "Were you forced to kill people? Not in self-defense, I mean?"

Sherlock's one working eye closed again; the shaking intensified. "One is rarely _forced_ to kill someone," he said in a bleak tone. "Hadn't you guessed what I did? John knows. I'm a killer, you know. Just like Donovan always said I would be."

Without hesitation, Greg moved the hand that rested on Sherlock's shoulder up to cup the back of his head. "No, you're not. You may have killed people, if you had to. That doesn't make you a _killer_. I've known you all of your adult life, Sherlock, and if anyone could have been a killer and gotten away with it, it would have been you. I've seen you want to hurt people, hell, I've seen you do it. But I've also seen you stop yourself, over and over again. Just like you stopped a few minutes ago."

A tear abruptly slid down Sherlock's cheek. He started to speak. Stopped. Swallowed hard, then tried again. "There are three people out there who would disagree with you. If they were still able to do so, that is."

His heart ached for Sherlock. If Greg could resurrect Jim Moriarty, he'd kill him all over again and never blink an eye. He offered Sherlock the only thing he could. "For what it's worth, I have a couple of those myself, you know." Sherlock suddenly went very quiet, aside from the tremors he couldn't control. He didn't speak, but that laser focus was suddenly on Greg's face.

"Yeah. Didn't tell you that before, did I?" Greg said, a bit shakily. "'s not something I noise about, and it was before your time. First one, I was just a kid, not much older than you were when we met. We'd been tracking this child killer—had a whole task force out looking. This little girl was grabbed right off the street—third one taken. But this time he was seen, so we were on his trail right from the start. My senior officer and I split up, and I went into this shed behind an old row house. He was there, with the little girl. Had his hand in her hair dragging her along—hadn't hurt her much yet, but I knew, I knew why he had her in the shed—the knife was right there on the bench beside him. And there was no other weapon, and I just… there was an axe."

Greg stopped, swallowed, breathed, while Sherlock continued to stare and shake. Greg thought about it a bit, and continued. All of it, then. "Second time was less… clear-cut. Kinda like your situation was, I expect. And this one you can't talk about, understand?" Sherlock didn't exactly nod, but clearly agreed.

"So this was not that long before I met you. Detective Sergeant by that time. Julian Lacy." Sherlock gave a start of recognition. "Yeah, you'd remember him, even if you were just at uni. Killed at least 11 people that we know of. Tried and acquitted twice, for two separate sets of victims—smartest bastard I ever ran across, before I met you. True psychopath. Sadist. Each time he was acquitted, he'd gone back to his usual activities, and we _couldn't fucking stop him_. He changed his M.O., changed his victim profiles, changed his appearance."

"We finally went after him with clear evidence—his last victim had managed to bite him, and we got usable DNA from her teeth post-mortem. A very long shot—we never expected to find anything, and clearly Lacy didn't expect that he'd left anything behind. We got a warrant and went to his house. He clubbed a constable and took off on a motorbike. There was a second bike there, and I hopped on and took off after, with my partner behind in the car."

"We ended up down by the docks near this deserted pier on the Thames, and his bike spun out and dumped him in the river. I'd jumped off to go get him when my partner pulls up. He'd gotten a call—tells me the DNA evidence was being thrown out, and Lacy was going to walk again. Eleven dead, and he was gonna be free to keep going."

"So I climbed down under the dock and he's there in the water. Apparently broke his arm when he went in—maybe got tangled with the bike. He's trying to grab one of the timbers for the dock, but it's slick and he's cold and he's only got the one hand. I walked over to the edge and leaned over to grab his arm, and he _smiled_ at me. And I knew—he knew what had happened somehow. Knew he could start all over again. My partner was still up top. I grabbed a support and leaned out, and I took my foot, and I put in on top of his head, and I pushed. And I kept pushing, until he didn't come back up again. Then I went back up and told my partner he never surfaced, and I never lost a moment's sleep."

Greg stopped and just breathed for a long moment, while Sherlock blinked and shook. When he was sure he could speak normally, he looked Sherlock right in the eye. "So. I killed two people. One was clearly justified. But the other? Well. I killed people, Sherlock. So am I a _killer_?"

Sherlock seemed to be moving past rational thought at this point, but was still trying to stay conscious. Greg waited patiently for his answer. And finally, slowly… "No. You're not."

Greg was shocked by the amount of relief flooding through him. "No, I don't think I am. And I don't think you are either." He stood up, groaning a bit as his knees cracked. "Now. I'm gonna call the paramedics over, and we'll get you carted off to A+E, all right?"

Sherlock still had enough in him to object, though his teeth were chattering hard enough to make him difficult to understand. "Just… just put me in… a cab. I'll be…fine. John can…John can…" he stuttered to a frustrated stop.

Greg sighed. "No, John can't." Sherlock glared. "Sherlock. You're covered in blood. You're shaking so hard it's visible from fucking Mars. If you found me, or John, in this state, would you shove us in a cab?"

Sherlock gave a sulky look, skewed somewhat by the distortion from bruising and swelling on his face. "I'm f-f-f-fine."

Greg rolled his eyes. "All right then. If you can stand up and walk to the corner unassisted, I'll take you home."

Sherlock, damn him, actually tried. _Twice_. He never got further than a half-crouch before his knees gave and sent him back down. The second time Greg hauled him back to sit against the wall and picked up the phone to tell Donovan and the paramedics where they were.

Sherlock finally lost his battle to stay conscious shortly before the paramedics arrived, which actually made things easier. Greg simply gave them the information on his injury (violent blow to the head; no disorientation or confusion; extreme physical and emotional stress complicated by exertion and blood loss), and they loaded him in the ambulance. Greg told them to page Dr. John Watson when they arrived. He took a certain amount of satisfaction in sending Sherlock off first while making Comstock wait for a second ambulance.

Greg followed that ambulance as soon as Comstock had been loaded, leaving Donovan and Camden in charge of mopping things up. He phoned John, and they met in the lobby. John, for some reason, had changed into surgical scrubs. Greg was always surprised to see John in "doctor" mode. It was disconcerting. John looked simultaneously frustrated and relieved—not that unusual in dealing with Sherlock. "He's conscious now, or he was five minutes ago, and trying to convince me to make them release him." He raised his eyebrows at Greg, who grinned. "They think it's a combination of concussion and blood loss, mostly. But they want to check the eye. And he's got one of his migraines, poor sod."

Greg was mildly surprised. "Migraine? I've never seen him have that before."

John frowned. "No, it's from when he was Away. He had a couple of bad head injuries-fractured his skull eight or nine months ago. Guess he didn't tell you. Apparently he's had migraines ever since, bad ones. He's had one since he's been back, and spent the better part of two days in bed at our place."

Greg briefly tried to visualize pain bad enough to keep Sherlock down for two days. "Christ. Can't they give him anything?"

John grimaced. "Not yet. I've convinced them to do a CT scan—that way they can check his eye, and check for bleeding or swelling in the brain at the same time. If everything looks clear at that point, I'll ask the neurologist to give him sedation if she feels comfortable doing so. It might be enough to break the cycle before it really sets in, and it's a better option for him than straight pain meds, for obvious reasons."

"Right now they're prepping him for the scan but I had to make them stop long enough to give him something for nausea, which of course he didn't mention until he threw up on my trousers." He waved his hands at the scrubs—that explained the clothing change, then. "Once that kicks in it shouldn't take too long—twenty minutes or so."

By 2 AM, things had largely been sorted. Sherlock's scan was done, with encouraging results—no evidence of internal bleeding in either his head or his eye. His cheekbone was cracked, but the fracture wasn't displaced so no surgery was needed. Sherlock was now settled in a private room, bandaged up and blue-white pale except for the extensive areas of black and purple bruising. He held a large icepack to his face, when he remembered to do so. John's request for sedation had been approved and the drug was now running into Sherlock's drip, so the icepack was increasingly forgotten as Sherlock's thoughts started to slide away. He insisted, though, on regaling Lestrade and John with the full story of Albert Comstock, mainly to distract himself from the frankly appalling pain in his head.

"It's surprisingly banal," he slurred. The pauses between sentences were gradually extending, but, being Sherlock, he was still mostly making sense, and Greg was taking notes as he spoke. "I checked, before John took my phone away." Sherlock stopped to give John a slow-motion glare. John ignored it. "Before he was a butcher, Albert Comstock spent 2 years as a mortuary apprentice, studying funeral practices and preparations." Another long pause, and Sherlock's one working eye slowly closed. John moved forward to place the coldpack back against Sherlock's face and had started to cover him with the blanket when the eye slid back open. Sherlock picked up just where he'd left off, apparently unaware of his lapse.

"I think you'll find he was sacked abruptly, most likely because of his necrophiliac attentions to his subjects. That is the same reason…" his voice trailed off, the eye closing again. John and Greg waited, but that was the end. John tucked Sherlock's hands under the blanket and shut off the light over the cot.

Greg stood up and stretched mightily, then sighed. "Thank you Baby Jesus. I was afraid he wasn't going to go under, and we'd have to sit here and watch him hurt for the next 8 hours."

John nodded. "Yeah, he's pretty resistant. Pain levels that high make it more difficult to put him under without using heavy-duty stuff, and with his history with drugs I always ask them to play it safe. In this case I think the blood loss worked in our favor." He paused, then chuckled. "Yet another sentence you don't hear every day."

John stopped, a bit hesitant. "Greg, I need to ask a favor." Greg gave him an inquiring look. "I can take the other cot and stay the night—things don't go well if he wakes and he's alone in a hospital room." They both knew why—too many associations with forced stays and withdrawal. "But I have to leave in the morning, and I can't take him home if they release him—I've promised to give a talk on battlefield trauma after my shift so I won't be free until about 8 tomorrow evening. He'll likely sleep for 8-10 hours, and then they'll release him once they're sure he's stable and coherent. So—can you come pick him up and take him back to Baker Street in the afternoon? I can ask Mycroft if it's a problem, but I hate to do that to either one of them."

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, I hear that. 'Course I can. I expect he'll still be feeling too bad to be much trouble." He paused, trying to figure the best way to say this. "Look, you and I need to talk, but I need to leave right now—I've got tons of paperwork to deal with before I can go to bed." John gave him a troubled look, but Greg waved his hand. "No, not urgent, just something you need to know about. Tell you what—why don't you pick up takeaway when you're done tomorrow, and we'll have a movie night? Invite Mary. Your choice of movie."

He stopped, struck by a memory. "Probably not a musical, though." They both shuddered, remembering Sherlock's epic strop when they forced him to sit through _Cabaret_ one memorable evening. (Sherlock lost a bet. All things considered, Greg wasn't entirely sure John had won anything worth having).

Greg strolled back into Sherlock's hospital room at 4 the next afternoon, a little dismayed at what he found. The entire left side of Sherlock's face was a deep purple, almost black. His left eye was swollen tightly shut, and bruising had spread out to encompass the right eye socket as well. An area of hair above his left temple had been shaved and was covered in thick bandages. Despite all that, though, Sherlock was completely dressed in a suit—either Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft had brought clothes by. He was sitting on the edge of the cot—not feeling well enough to pace, apparently—and twitching his fingers agitatedly. And he was also, clearly, in a Mood.

"Finally!" he snapped. "I could feel my brain starting to run out my ears. No one would tell me what happened with Comstock. Did you search his flat yet? I'm quite sure he has trophies. Perhaps photos or articles of clothing. I couldn't text you—John took my phone and the cretins in charge here wouldn't bring me another or call anyone to bring me one. Mycroft's minions came while I was still asleep so I couldn't make them do so either." He tried, and failed, to scowl at the injustice of it all. Nothing on his face would really move but his mouth, chin and one eyebrow.

"And good afternoon to you too," Greg said mildly. This was a Sherlock he'd seen many times, and was quite comfortable dealing with. Stroppiness aside, Sherlock didn't have the energy to do more than complain—no worries about him heading off on his own today.

"If you behave and don't cause any trouble while I get you checked out, I'll tell you the whole story on the way to Baker Street. Cause me any grief or insult anyone too badly, and you'll wait until John shows up this evening. Deal?"

Sherlock tried to scowl again but his face hurt too much. He gave a deflated sigh and slid carefully back down on the cot. "Deal," he said mournfully.

Checking out went smoothly without Sherlock interjecting himself into the process. Mycroft had clearly already greased the works (and perhaps a few palms) so no unpleasantness relating to billing or payment for the private room was mentioned. Greg picked up Sherlock's medication (pain pills—mild; antibiotics—strong). They didn't even have to take a cab—one of Mycroft's sleek black cars was idling by the patient drop-off when the nurses rolled a whinging Sherlock's wheelchair out front.

Greg lolled across the smooth leather seat and gave a pleased groan. "Well this is nice, innit? Have to thank Mycroft for this, Sherlock," he said with a grin, knowing the reaction that would provoke. Sherlock, sitting very carefully to avoid jarring his head, made a move with his mouth like he'd tasted something bad. " _You_ can thank him. I, on the other hand, will be forced to do something boring and unpleasant for him to pay off the debt. I'd prefer the Tube."

Greg snorted. "You've never voluntarily taken the Tube in your life. And I know your brother—he doesn't give a damn if you use one of his cars. You just insist on treating it like an obligation so you have one more reason to complain about him."

Sherlock gave an insulted sniff. "As if I needed any additional reasons." He lapsed briefly into silence, wincing when the car bumped or turned sharply.

Greg felt a bit mean—wasn't fair to tease him when he was hurting. "Want your tablets?" he asked. Sherlock sighed. "Yes. But I can't have them yet." The fact that Sherlock admitted he needed them spoke volumes about his pain level. Distraction was definitely the next order of business, then.

"Right, then. Albert Comstock," Greg began, pulling his notebook from his pocket. "Tell me what you already know, and then I'll fill in the rest."

Sherlock gratefully accepted the diversion. "Comstock studied in the funerary business as a young adult. Mysteriously changed careers about ten years ago and took up meat cutting and food service. This fits with the motivation for the crimes—the girls were killed and _then_ sexually assaulted, not the other way around. It required a fair knowledge of both human anatomy and meat handling," Sherlock paused briefly at Greg's involuntary grimace, "ah, well, they were skills he put to use. He cleaned the bodies expertly, drained all fluids to make them easier to transport. Less mess."

"But the killing wasn't the point with him—it was a means to an end. It all made sense once I realized that the women didn't need any particular appearance, age or race—they only became interesting once they were dead—so his only 'type' was 'deceased'. It's very likely these were not his only victims—he lived in Bristol for several years. You should check for similar killings in other cities."

"We did that, yes," said Greg, in a mildly offended tone. "We _do_ know how this is done, you know." Sherlock couldn't effectively roll his eyes with one of them swollen shut, but he tried. Greg ignored him but picked up the story.

"We searched his flat—had a place in an old building not far from the restaurant. And yes, he had another secret room. Found a lot of truly horrible photos, plus several handbags and three scarves. So no, these weren't his only victims. We're hoping he'll tell us who the others were, and where the bodies are, in exchange for consideration at trial."

Sherlock scoffed. "No, he won't. He knows he'll never get out. I'll come see the evidence tomorrow—you can send me the files on the Bristol cases as well."

Greg was saved from telling Sherlock that he almost certainly wouldn't be going anywhere for a least a couple of days by their arrival at Baker Street. He'd let John fight that particular battle—Albert Comstock wasn't going anywhere in the next couple of days either.

Getting Sherlock settled inside wasn't difficult—he was capable of taking the stairs, but Greg could tell it took too much out of him. Greg steered him quickly to the sofa and Sherlock sat thankfully before carefully settling down on his back with a relieved sigh. Greg busied himself in the kitchen, made tea and set it on the coffee table, then went into Sherlock's bedroom and brought back a blanket and pillow.

He leant over, put his hands under Sherlock's shoulders and lifted. "Here, budge up. Just for a bit. You need to take some tea and your tablets before you sleep." Sherlock made an aggrieved noise but sat up. He reached for the tablets and started to swallow them dry before Greg grabbed his hand. "Nope. You need the liquid. Take them with tea, and a couple of these biscuits. John says they're your favorite so I know you like them."

Sherlock sniffed but complied, swallowing tea, tablets, and a biscuit. "Yes, _Dad_ ," he said sarcastically.

Greg refused to take the bait. "Well, you know, I feel a bit like your dad. Think you need it, now and again." Sherlock stiffened, not sure if he was being teased. "I _have_ a father, thank you," he said, just this side of rude.

"Yeah, I know. I've met him. Sweet guy," Greg said mildly, while Sherlock radiated shock. "What? Didn't realize that, did you? Know when I met him?" Sherlock carefully shook his head.

Greg settled himself on the coffee table facing Sherlock, hands clasped between his knees. "Your last overdose. The one where we thought you'd die." He said it flatly, not trying to soften it. The portions of Sherlock's face and neck that weren't bruised flushed abruptly, and he dropped his gaze to his lap.

Greg relented quickly. "Sorry. It just still bothers me to think about it. And that wasn't what I was getting at anyway. Thing is, I sat with your dad for a long while one afternoon, waiting for you to wake up. He was just…lost. No idea how to help you." Sherlock, still looking at his lap, said nothing but was suddenly trembling a bit.

It really wasn't fair to have this kind of conversation right now, given the shape that Sherlock was in. But he might not get another opportunity.

"Look, I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I know how hard you fought it." The trembling was worse, now. _Shit_. "Hey, now. Stop that. I'm not picking at you. Hear me?" He reached over and carefully pushed under Sherlock's chin, forcing his gaze up. An old misery looked back at him, and his heart clenched.

"Oh, bugger. I knew I'd cock this up." He moved over onto the couch next to Sherlock, and patted his knee. "You're missing the point entirely, sunshine. What I'm trying to say is, I think your dad's a lovely fellow. But right then, you didn't need a lovely guy. You needed someone who understood, even just a little, what you struggled with—not just the addiction, but the reasons for it. I think your dad never got it, though he wanted to.

Sherlock nodded slightly. The misery was fading a bit, replaced by a wary interest.

Greg, encouraged by that, ploughed on. "See, I didn't get it either, at first. You were so bloody _manic_ , you know? You'd show up, high as a satellite, and reel off shit about my crime scene that no one else had seen. And you had that accent, and you were so fucking young. So I assumed you were just the typical bored posh kid, into drugs because they were there. And it was such a waste—that mind, just baked all the time. First couple of times I ran you off—remember?" Sherlock made a non-committal noise; it was unclear how much he really remembered from those bad times.

"Then you showed up when one of my senior officers was there, and I had no choice—had to bring you in." That, Sherlock _did_ remember, clearly—he flushed again, from remembered anger this time. "Yeah, I know. Clarke was a dick. Especially since you solved the case before we carted you off. Must confess, I didn't mind a bit when your brother showed up and got the charges dropped." Sherlock's one movable eyebrow lifted at that. Greg grinned. "Well, not much, anyway. But you do remember the conversation we had, the very next time? What I told you?"

Sherlock looked confused, but answered. "You told me that I could work with you on cases, on your terms, but only if I stayed clean."

"And you looked at me, and your face got all tight, and you said 'thank God'. Not 'oh, good', or 'be happy to', or even 'thank you'. That's when I realized. You needed it—needed something to hold onto, something you were good at, something that _mattered_. Because you were fighting, all the time, and you were _losing_."

Sherlock looked back down at his lap again. "I…yes. I was."

Greg nodded. "See, I figured that out by watching you work. You were a different person when you worked—a holy terror, yeah, but sane for the most part. But as soon as the work stopped, you were back to fighting again. And I think that's what your dad, and maybe your brother, never really got. That you just got _tired_. But being kind to you, or locking you up somewhere, wasn't ever really going to help, was it?"

Sherlock sighed. "No. I think my father believes to this day that he simply didn't love me hard enough." His voice wobbled, but Greg carefully ignored it.

"So, then. I think you needed, and need, someone who knows that. And someone who can tell you when you're being a prick and actually make you _stop_ , so you don't lose everything you've worked so hard for because you can't shut your mouth for five minutes. So I guess that would be me." He thought about it a second, and went on. "And one more thing—you make me mental, but I'm really proud of you, you know that, right? That's a 'dad' thing too, I reckon." Greg stopped and waited for Sherlock to blast him, or order him out, or, worst of all, laugh.

Sherlock, amazingly, did none of those things. After a long pause, he carefully nodded again.

Greg reached over and put the pillow on end of the sofa, and Sherlock edged back down with a grateful sigh. Then Greg draped the blanket over him and started to pick up the tea things to rinse. As he walked back into the kitchen, though, he heard, very softly, "Thank you." A pause. And then, wryly, "Dad."

Sherlock slept for the next four hours, thankfully. Greg warned John when the latter called to check on what kind of takeaway sounded best, so Sherlock was still snoring softly when John came quietly up the stairs, laden with Thai food and a bag of DVDs. Greg waited while John set the food on the kitchen table, then pulled him into Sherlock's bedroom and told him everything that had happened in the confrontation with Comstock.

"Jesus," John breathed. "I mean, I knew… he told me about one of them, one that he killed, but it was accidental. And I knew he was trained in martial arts, but I've never seen him do anything like that."

"Nor me," said Greg. "But wherever he was, he had a lot of practice, and he's _very_ good—I mean, Comstock had at least 6 or 7 stone on him and he took him down in a blink. The thinking part of him just wasn't there. Scary as fuck. But he _did_ stop. All on his own. I just think what he did, it weighs on him. And he hates it."

John sighed. "Yeah. And he hates himself, sometimes."

Greg grimaced. "Got that, thanks. I've seen that before—he was like that much of the time, before he got clean. So what we need to do is, we need to get him back to where he was before he left, right? Well, before—" Greg ground to a halt, abruptly realizing that mentioning Moriarty to John was just not on.

John sighed. "You can say the name, you know. Moriarty. I won't break. And you're right, mostly. He blames himself, and the best thing we can do is find a way to make him stop that, or at least learn to live with it. Damned if I know how. But I think," and he dropped his hand on Greg's shoulder, "that we'll start with some good takeaway and some bad movies. And see where we go from there."

When they came back out, Sherlock was awake, barely—yawning (very gingerly) and poking fretfully at his mad hair where loose curls caught on the tape from his bandages. When John and Greg walked back into the lounge, however, he molded his face into as close as he could get to his normal haughty expression, hindered by the fact that only 10% of his facial muscles would actually move. John gave him points for trying, anyway.

"So," he said in icy tones. "Are you quite done discussing me?" Greg started to respond, but John beat him to it. "For the moment." There was absolutely no apology, in either his voice or his face. "We're your friends, and we're concerned about you."

Sherlock huffed, annoyed but not truly angry. "I am…" he began, but before he could finish the sentence, John and Greg immediately chorused " _fine_!"

Sherlock gave a bruised glower, but subsided. "Well, I _am_ ," he muttered. John snorted. "In the broadest sense of the word, I guess. How's the migraine?"

Sherlock shot a glance over at Lestrade, and John gave him a shoulder shrug, indicating that he had indeed told Greg. Sherlock sighed and clearly decided to give it up as a lost cause. "Largely gone. It has been replaced, however, by considerable pain in my face." He looked to John. "How long should that last?"

"Well, unfortunately one of those perfect cheekbones is cracked. Probably be mostly OK in 10 days or so, but the next two won't be pleasant." John reached out for the prescription bottles on the coffee table, and wandered into the kitchen to fix tea. "You can take these as soon as you have some tea and eat."

"I'll take the others, but I don't want the pain pills." Sherlock tried again to frown, unsuccessfully. "I've spent entirely too much time sleeping as it is. I want to look at the files on Comstock." Sherlock gestured imperiously at Greg, as if he were hiding the files somewhere about his person.

Greg snorted. "Not a chance. Last thing I need is Comstock's lawyer finding out I shared those files with you when you're drugged up. Tomorrow, maybe."

Sherlock drew himself up in an offended fashion. "No one would know. And I'm better at this drugged than you lot are sober."

Greg knew much better than to get drawn into _that_ kind of argument. "Nope, sorry. Not playing. Tomorrow, or not at all." He crossed him arms and stared Sherlock down. After a full minute Sherlock gave a resigned sigh. "All right, _fine_. Find something else to keep my brain from fermenting."

It was a good evening, really. They settled in at the kitchen table and sorted out mismatched plates and silverware for their Thai feast. John put small amounts of everything on Sherlock's plate, ignoring his "not hungry—I had tea and biscuits!" after Greg chimed in with "one biscuit—five hours ago". They made desultory conversation while they ate, and Greg noticed that Sherlock unconsciously put forkfuls of food in his mouth so long as he was distracted enough.

Mary showed up while they were finishing, carrying a large chocolate cake from the bakery up the street. She set the cake on the counter, dropped a kiss on John's forehead and a quick hug around Greg's shoulders before she turned to get a good look at Sherlock. "Oh dear," she said in a faint voice. Sherlock immediately chimed in with "I am _fine_!", but that didn't deter Mary from picking up Sherlock's pain tablet bottle from the counter, shaking two out and holding them imperiously under Sherlock's nose. John was startled when Sherlock took one of the pills without protest, while refusing the second—it never ceased to amaze him how good Mary was at reading the detective, better than John was, in fact.

It turned into quite the rollicking night. John passed out good beer to Greg and Mary, and a glass of cider to Sherlock (a taste he'd acquired on his travels), and they sliced up the cake and dug in. No one seemed in a hurry to leave the table afterward, and Sherlock's half-dose of pain medication had made him mellow and a bit giggly. So they stayed, telling stories and laughing, far too late to actually watch any of the movies. Greg trotted out some of his milder "early Sherlock" stories ("… and yeah, it never occurred to him to tell me he was allergic to gin until _after_ he'd drunk the gin and tonic that the suspect bought him. And then he leaned over and threw up in my lap…"), John explained how he got the tattoo on his bum ("My mates didn't tell me they'd spiked the punch with a bottle of vodka after we'd already added the rum…"), and Sherlock told the story of stealing the family car in an attempt to move to London when he was eight ("I miscalculated how difficult it would be to simultaneously reach down to touch the pedals and still direct the car. Mummy completed overreacted, of course. It was only a _small_ tree, after all, and my nose wasn't actually _broken_ …"). Mary didn't really share any anecdotes, but provided a ready audience.

Greg, warm with good food and good company, looked over at Sherlock, chuckling and holding his head up with one hand, curls flying everywhere, and was struck all over again by something he'd noticed from the very first time he'd met him. "Christ, Sherlock, you must have a portrait hid up in the attic somewhere. You look twenty, you know? 's not fair."

Sherlock didn't understand the _Dorian Gray_ reference, but sniffed anyway. "Oh please. I'm noticeably younger than any of you—of course I look it, though I'm sure I look my age." Mary reached over and punched his arm, drawing a perplexed look. "Ow."

John laughed. "No you don't—at least not all the time. Don't you remember what I wrote in my blog about the first time I met you? I said you looked twelve. Bit of exaggeration, yeah, but I really expected to find you were twenty-three or so. Would have believed you if you'd told me you were twenty, actually."

Sherlock wasn't having it. "You've never been especially good at guessing ages. I can look younger if I wish, but it's much like any other disguise. Misdirection, posture and attire. No one who knows me would be fooled for a second." He gave a lopsided smirk, the bruising pulling his facial muscles awry. "Not even you, Lestrade."

Greg gave a snort. "All right, that tears it." He gave them all a significant look to get their attention. "Now Sherlock, your brother swore me to silence about this, since he knew how you'd react. But I figure you've grown up a bit since, so…."

John chimed in. "Not that much!" and everyone but Sherlock laughed.

Greg continued, "So, how old were you when we met?" Sherlock, not sure where this was going, answered slowly. "Twenty-four."

"Right, then," said Greg. "So you know how I had to run you in from the crime scene because you were, well, never mind…? And your brother came and picked you up in less than an hour?" Sherlock gave a wary nod. "How do you suppose your brother knew where you were?"

"The way he usually does, I presume," Sherlock said sourly. "He's always had the police booking system flagged."

Greg grinned. "Well, almost. Yeah, later on, that's how he would always know. But that time…I didn't exactly put you in the booking system, though I did put your name in _a system_." By this time John and Mary were waiting expectantly—this sounded like something Sherlock wasn't going to like.

"Oh, get on with it," Sherlock barked.

"Yeah, yeah." Greg grinned. "You know, when I first met you, I really couldn't get a read on how old you were, just young. And because you were so skinny, I wasn't sure just _how_ young, but my first thought was 'very'. So when we took you to the station, I put you in a room by yourself, and I went and entered your name," and he took a long, dramatic pause, "in the database of missing or runaway kids!"

And just like that, Greg whipped up the phone he'd carefully moved to his lap while setting his punchline up, and snapped a picture of Sherlock's outraged expression. And before Sherlock realized what he was doing and grabbed for the phone, he sent the shot along to John, and Mrs. Hudson—and, after John made Sherlock take his medicine and trundled him off to bed, to Mycroft, along with a note explaining the context. And was tickled to receive a quick, sardonic note in return: " _I shall treasure it. And so will our mother._ "

Notes:

I freely acknowledge that some of the medicine here may be a little "iffy". I do have a medical background (and so know better), but I've stretched a point or two when it comes to concussion protocol-can't have poor Sherlock hurt for 12 hours, can we?


	8. Interlude in December

Notes:

It's clear that Sherlock's parents dote on him-they came up to London as soon as he returned, and planned to stay a while. So it only made sense that, his first Christmas home (only a little over a month later), they would want him with them, and that it would very likely be an emotional time.

I decided, all on my own, that the Holmes side of the family is not the only one with exotic names. And, using the "M" as Mummy's first initial (from her book cover in HLV) I gave her a name that seemed fitting. (I know that popular head-canon uses "Marie", but she just doesn't seem like a "Marie" to me).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 _Surrey, the Holmes residence_

John wasn't precisely sure how it happened. How he ended up, the day before Christmas, rumbling down to Surrey in Sherlock's mum's Range Rover.

Oh, sure, he understood the mechanics. After seeing the picture of Sherlock's injuries, Melisande ("call me Mellie, dear!") Holmes left three messages for her youngest to call her. Failing to get an answer, she called her eldest, who had wisely boarded a plane for Vienna and a conference on international disaster planning which would be followed by a trip to Russia over Christmas. Which was why, three days after the impromptu party, John answered his phone and found himself the target of an exceedingly polite, but impressively thorough interrogation.

Sherlock, the bastard, was off to Bristol looking at Comstock's prior crime scenes, so John, stuck in London with clinic duty, was on his own. And Melisande was like Sherlock with social skills. It was terrifying. Within five minutes he found himself inviting Mellie and Siger to come into town for dinner with him, Mary and Sherlock. Within ten he realized that he had just agreed to spend part of Christmas week in Surrey.

Mary was invited as well, of course, but he knew she wouldn't come—she already had plans for a Girl's Trip with some friends. But John did get his own back on Sherlock by assuring Mellie that Sherlock would be glad to spend a week in Surrey, even if John had to come back earlier. And he truly enjoyed breaking that happy news to Sherlock on his return. ("John, she'll make me _go caroling_!" Sherlock moaned. John smirked. "Then you should have called her back, shouldn't you?")

So, the Tuesday before Christmas, Melisande and Siger rolled into London with their large, comfortable vehicle (Sherlock: "Really, Mummy. There are no vast wastelands to traverse in Surrey. Why do two elderly people need this egregiously large automobile?" Mellie: "Because I have two egregiously large children, and I like to occasionally go for a drive with one or both of them. Get in the car.") They all trundled off for a delightful dinner (at which Mellie gave Sherlock the gimlet eye until he picked up his fork and actually ate. It was _great._ Mary told John afterward that she was dying to take a picture of Sherlock actually doing what he was told).

John had decided to spend the night at Baker Street since they would be leaving for Surrey relatively early. Mellie and Siger went to their hotel after dinner, but left Sherlock with subtle threats that actually got him out of bed and packed (after a fashion) by 9 am the next morning. John now understood why Mrs. Hudson threatened to call Sherlock's mum so often.

The ride back to Surrey was really pretty entertaining. Melisande and Siger kept up a lively conversation that pointedly included John (ignoring Sherlock's occasional grunts, emitted only under duress. The rest of the time he pretended to sleep, with all the grace of a spotty teen on a forced trip to his Nan's). Of course Siger did finish Mellie's sentences, but it didn't seem to bother either of them.

John wasn't sure what he expected as far as the Holmes' residence went. In the end, he was struck by how, well, _homelike_ it was. Yes, it was big—it had always been clear that Sherlock came from money, after all, and old money at that. The house was historic, but had a lovely, lived-in look. This was a house that had been maintained well, and modernized enough to keep it comfortable for a family, but no attempt had been made at "stylish"—no sweeping open spaces, no vast windows or trendy finishes. It was warm, quirky and slightly untidy, in the best possible way.

The gardens were lovely, romantic and a little overgrown, with many nooks and crannies of old plantings that would have been ideal for children's' rambles. John could easily visualize Pirate Sherlock chasing Mycroft down the paths with a toy sword.

Sherlock unfolded himself from the back seat and trudged into the house in a sulk, though John was stunned to see him carrying both of their bags without protest. While John stood in the entryway chatting with Mellie about the history of the house ("Well, parts are supposedly 600 years old, but the Holmes family can only swear to 400 of them," Mellie said airily, as if owning the same house for 400 years was nothing special), Sherlock came to a rather tense stop and waited for his mother to finish before gesturing vaguely towards a staircase to the right of the doorway. "My room is up there," he said abruptly. "I'm assuming you're in Mycroft's old room." He then spun on his heel and started up the stairs without waiting to see if John was coming.

Melisande frowned slightly. John looked after Sherlock indecisively—he didn't want to be rude to Mellie, but there was an undercurrent to Sherlock's mood right now that was making him uneasy. Mellie sighed behind him and settled the matter. "Go ahead and get settled, John. Sherlock can show you where everything is, and we can meet back down here in an hour or so once I have lunch ready." She paused, as if hesitating to say something, then continued quietly. "He's a bit…off, I think. Maybe you can calm him down." Then she smiled and glided off towards the lounge and, presumably, the kitchen.

At the top of the stairs, John found himself in a dimly-lit corridor with Victorian wallpaper and old but shiny wood floors. He passed several closed doors before seeing two open ones, across the corridor from each other. He glanced into the first, and saw a charming brass bed with an antique quilt at the foot, but no Sherlock—apparently this was his, then. He walked across the corridor and saw Sherlock standing just inside the opposite doorway with his back pressed to the open door, both bags abandoned at his feet. His face was corpse-white, the last of the fading bruises glaringly apparent. His eyes were closed and his hands were clenching and unclenching at his side.

John moved forward cautiously, not sure what was going on but with alarm bells clanging in his head. "Sherlock?" he said softly. "Everything all right?" Sherlock didn't answer, but his breathing spiraled up audibly, hands now clutching at his chest. John suddenly realized what he was seeing.

" _Shit_. Sherlock. Listen to me. You're having a panic attack, right? I need you to breathe with me and count. Nothing else. I'll take care of everything else. Just breathe, OK? Feel my hand and try to push your chest against it." He slid Sherlock down to a sitting position as the man's knees abruptly went, sliding a hand behind his head to prevent a rap against the wood of the door as he knelt in front of Sherlock's sprawled legs.

Sherlock was now whooping and gasping for breath, one hand gripping painfully on John's shoulder while the other fluttered and clenched in the air. John pushed his left hand firmly against Sherlock's abdomen and continued to count breaths loudly, while his right lifted Sherlock's chin and forced him to look up. "Look at me and breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Listen to the rhythm and try to match it. In. Out."

It took perhaps five minutes before Sherlock's breathing came back into a normal pattern. By the end, he was leaning his head back against the door while John reflexively pushed his fringe out of his face. They sat in silence for another five minutes after that before John spoke again.

"Have these been happening often?" he said carefully.

Sherlock gave a shuddering sigh. "Perhaps once a week. Much less often than in the beginning."

John's mouth opened before he could edit himself. "And you never _told_ me?" He could have kicked himself—he knew from personal experience that that kind of approach only made things worse.

Sherlock gave a mildly offended sniff. "I have been managing them successfully on my own, thank you." He moved his arms and legs in an abortive attempt to get up, only to be stopped by John's arms on his shoulder. "Nope. Stay here for a bit." His fingers pushed into the hollow under Sherlock's jaw. "Your heartrate is too high and you're still sweating." Sherlock gave up and slumped back against the door, head back, while John tried to think of a non-intrusive way to ask uncomfortable questions. Sherlock solved that dilemma for him, though.

"Stop agonizing. It's exhausting to witness. Just ask. You will eventually anyway." His lips twisted in something that was almost a smile.

"Alright then," John said carefully. "Do you have any common triggers? Do you know what triggered you today?"

"Common triggers? Enclosed spaces or confinement. Blood, initially, but you knew about that. Restraints of any kind, including some clothing items. Occasionally certain loud male voices or unexpected touches." Sherlock paused, while John worked very hard at not reacting to that matter-of-fact list and the places it made his mind go.

'Today, I believe, was a combination of confinement in the rear seat of the car, coupled with the smell of wood polish in the entryway." He stopped talking abruptly as his breathing sped up a bit, and john returned his hand to Sherlock's abdomen in a silent reminder to breathe and count.

They were silent for a minute or so, while Sherlock got his breathing back under control. Then John made a mild protest. "You should have told me the back seat bothered you. You could have swapped with your dad—he wouldn't mind."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes," he said drily. "And I'm sure he or my mother wouldn't ask for an explanation, or come up with one on their own."

"But they're your _parents_ , Sherlock. They know you've been through a bad time. They wouldn't ever think less of you for needing a little help," John protested.

" _I don't need their help_ ," Sherlock snapped. Then he caught himself, and spoke again, softly, almost plaintively. "I _don't_."

John had his doubts, but knew this wasn't the time to voice them.

"Alright then. For right now, let's just get out of the floor, yeah?" John slid his hands under Sherlock's elbows and lifted, while Sherlock got those stork-like legs under him. They made it to a standing position, where Sherlock halted, swaying a bit but staying up. John herded him gently towards the four-poster visible under the windows. Sherlock shook off his guiding hand but continued tottering towards the bed without protest. He reached it under his own power and dropped abruptly to sit on the edge, then collapsed slowly onto his side, pulling up his legs. He rolled silently over to face the wall, apparently thinking this would forestall conversation.

"Your mum will go spare if she sees those shoes up on the duvet," John said mildly, reaching over to slide them off. Sherlock allowed it, which in and of itself was an indicator of his current state. "I'll go ask her to set lunch back half an hour or so—that will give you more time to rest. I'll tell you're getting over one of your migraines."

Sherlock immediately rolled onto his back. "No!" And then a bit more calmly, "No. She… they don't…"

John sighed. "Christ. You haven't told them anything, have you?" The ensuing silence was as good an answer as he was likely to get. "Right. We are going to talk about this, when you're feeling better. For right now, I'm going to tell her you made yourself car-sick." He noted Sherlock's offended look but held out a hand to cut off protest. "Don't care if it's embarrassing. You need the extra time to rest, and that's the simplest explanation. Unless you want to volunteer something else?"

Sherlock rolled grumpily back to face the wall. "Tell her whatever you like. She will likely draw her own conclusions anyway, and come interrogate me herself."

"Good. She's better at it than I am," huffed John, and headed off to find the kitchen.

As it happened, Sherlock managed to elude interrogation after all. Just as Sherlock had predicted, John's offering of car-sickness drew an exasperated eye-roll from Mellie. "John, Sherlock has never had motion sickness in his life. I appreciate your willingness to perjure yourself for him, but you do him no favors. I've known since he came back that something is seriously amiss, and one way or the other he is going to tell me about it." She paused at John's involuntary flinch. "Is anything truly wrong at the moment, or is he just hiding?"

John sighed. "He's had a panic attack. He needs to rest up a bit—the adrenaline surge is exhausting." Mellie turned and started walking towards the stairway. "Just—seriously—go easy right now?"

He blinked at one of Sherlock's expressions on his mother's face. The " _I'm surrounded by idiots_ " one, though thankfully a bit more polite than her son's version. "John, this is not the first time I've winkled secrets out of my son for his own good." Her face softened a bit then, and she gave a warm smile. "I'm so glad you're here."

She strode off and up the stairs, while John waited resignedly for the shouting to begin. Five minutes later, though, Melisande swept back into the kitchen with a frustrated huff. "He's asleep," she sighed. "Really asleep—he's good at faking, but not _that_ good." John was afraid to ask what test she used.

In the end, Sherlock slept right through lunch. John went up to check on him after an hour and a half and found him curled in a tight ball and breathing deeply. All things considered, rest was more important than food at the moment. John, Mellie and Siger had a convivial meal, and afterward John and Siger settled themselves in the back parlour with a good book and the Times crossword, respectively. Mellie stayed in the kitchen, saying she had some baking to do before dinner.

John wasn't sure what woke him—some small noise or movement, perhaps. But he became aware that he was still sitting in the comfortable chair in the parlour, his book forgotten in his lap. Obviously the big lunch and cozy setting had led him to nod off. He suddenly noticed Siger standing just inside the doorway, smiled and started to apologize when Siger quickly put his finger to his lips and nodded his head towards the closed glass door.

Just visible in the corner of the kitchen, Sherlock and his mother stood, engaged in intense (but inaudible) conversation. Melisande's hand was on Sherlock's forearm, while Sherlock's other hand threaded roughly through his curls in agitation. John couldn't see Sherlock's face, only Mellie's. She shook her head and moved her hand up to Sherlock's cheek, and a shudder ran visibly across his shoulders. Suddenly he reached out and clutched his mother, as her arms moved to fold around his back, and his forehead sank to meet hers. They stayed that way for a minute, two minutes. John noticed that Mellie was rocking slightly, to and fro, one hand moved to cup Sherlock's head and the other rubbing his back—the universal language of a parent with a distressed child.

John was afraid to move, to make any sound at all that would disrupt that tender, necessary moment. Siger stayed frozen in place by the door. In the kitchen, Sherlock unfolded himself slowly from his mother and brushed the heels of his hands roughly across his eyes. Mellie laced her arm around his waist and the two moved off together towards the front of the house.

When they were clearly out of earshot, Siger gave a gusty sigh and folded himself back down on the chair across from John. "Lock has always found it terribly hard to ask for comfort," he said quietly. "That doesn't mean he doesn't need it."

Dinner was a little late, but no one minded. Sherlock helped his mum chop vegetables with only minimal grumbling. His eyes were a bit puffy, but he seemed calmer than when they'd arrived. When dinner was ready he sat quietly at the table, responding when spoken to even if he didn't initiate much conversation. He didn't eat much, but under the circumstances no one expected that he would. After dinner Siger asked Sherlock to come look at something he was building in his workshop. Though John was of course invited, he declined, figuring that Siger deserved some time alone with his son. He and Mellie had a friendly cup of coffee over an episode of Top Gear, and then John wandered off to bed alone.

John woke early the next morning to the smell of bacon and the sound of music filtering up from downstairs. He peeked into Sherlock's room as soon as he finished up in the loo, but the room was empty, the bed already neatly made up (interesting, that—apparently being in his childhood room made him tidier than he was at Baker Street).

As he wandered downstairs, he realized the music was coming from the back of the house, from a room he hadn't seen yet. He headed instinctively in that direction, and found himself in what was clearly a music room—not that he'd ever lived in, or seen, another house with a music room, but he knew one when he saw it. A grand piano held pride of place in one corner, and the Holmeses, elder and younger, were grouped around it. Mellie sat at the piano in accomplished style, while Sherlock and Siger stood behind her. And they were _singing—_ something sweet, complex, Baroque-sounding. John stopped, entranced and delighted. Siger sang in a clear, precise tenor, and Sherlock—oh, Sherlock—had a beautiful, rich baritone that John realized he had never heard before. Not once, in all their time together, had he heard Sherlock sing even a snippet of music, and based on what was before him, that was simply a crime.

John stood still and listened. It was glorious. Just glorious. The kind of thing you heard in candlelight services from some great cathedral on telly.

Suddenly an electronic chime chirped from the vicinity of the piano, and Mellie stopped playing and hopped up. "That's the quiche, then. Come have breakfast, everyone." She trotted off towards the kitchen, grabbing Sherlock's arm as she went and hauling him along. Siger chuckled and walked along with John at a more measured pace. He raised his eyebrows and said "You've never heard him, then?"

John shook his head ruefully. "I never even knew he could carry a tune. That's…it's a shame. Why would he hide it?" And even as he said it, he realized that was true. Sherlock had _intentionally_ kept his voice to himself—over the course of years, everyone would eventually sing, however briefly, at some point. But not Sherlock.

Siger slowed a bit, delaying their return to the kitchen. "Well…did he never tell you he was asked to audition for Westminster Abbey's Cathedral Choir when he was 16? Wait, no—of course not. You didn't even know he sang."

John nodded. "I'm not surprised, though. That voice—it's exceptional. But what happened? Did they turn him down?" And John could see Sherlock, at 16, being so crushed and angry that he refused to sing from then on.

Siger sighed. "Sherlock was in his first year at uni, and had made a…friend, if you use the term broadly. Someone much older and more sophisticated than he, not that virtually everyone there wasn't. I regret so much now that we allowed him to go at that age, no matter how much he begged." He paused, sighed, then shook his head roughly and continued. "Anyway, this particular 'friend' noticed how very anxious Sherlock was about the audition, and convinced him that he had the perfect remedy."

And John could see just where this was going. "Oh, no…" he breathed. Siger nodded, "Yes, just what you're thinking. He insisted on going to the audition alone. We were to meet him there afterward, since we couldn't be inside. And we arrived just in time to hear him shouting, screaming really, at the proctors. In any event, they realized when he arrived that he was high, and never even allowed him to sing for them. As far as I know, he's never sung where anyone but us could hear him since. His mother makes him go caroling with us, and he never opens his mouth."

John blinked. "That's just… Siger, I'm so sorry." Siger shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "I've long since made my peace with it. Sherlock has many other talents, and thankfully he finally hit on something that made him happy. That's all a parent can hope for, really." He paused thoughtfully. "He _did_ let you hear him this morning, though. Maybe you can help convince him to let others hear him as well."

John nodded. "I'll do my best." And he meant it.

After a huge breakfast of quiche, bacon, fresh fruit and tiny little sweet pastries, they all tottered into the sitting room and collapsed into chairs. Mellie insisted no one help with clean-up—she had help coming in a little later in the day who would also prepare their Christmas dinner. "It's part of my Christmas present from Siger every year," she said with a fond smile to her husband. "He knows I don't have the patience to cook more than once or twice in a row without getting testy about it."

They then turned their attention to the relatively modest pile of presents under the tree. John was glad he'd at least had enough warning to come up with something for everyone, including Sherlock. Mellie indicated that she and Siger had already exchanged their gifts earlier

John's gifts to Mellie and Siger went over very well. He'd seen a candid shot of Sherlock, taken by a crime scene photographer, that he particularly liked. He contacted the photographer for a copy, had it cropped, blown up and professionally mounted. Mellie loved it. "I haven't any new photos of him since university!" she exclaimed. Sherlock's lip curled slightly, but he held his peace. The antique carved pipe John found in a boot sale went to Siger, who was clearly pleased. He didn't smoke them, but he loved to collect unusual pipes. This one was a carved beehive, complete with tiny brass bees. Even Sherlock made appreciative noises at that gift- he did love his bees.

Mellie and Siger had gone together to give John a gift certificate for a gym membership, something Sherlock had apparently told them he had been wanting, but refusing to buy for himself. Sherlock then looked around expectantly for his own gift, but his mother forestalled that. "Let's do your gift last, dear. It's something I need to explain once we get there." Sherlock frowned, and his mother cut in. "And don't try to deduce it. We worked hard on this, so don't spoil things." He pouted a bit but subsided.

John, with a great deal of hesitancy, then held out his gift for Sherlock. It was an antique chemistry set he'd found in a little shop near Covent Garden. Still in its original leather sectioned bag, it held dozens of tiny sample bottles, some still with unrecognizable contents. Best of all, it held what appeared to be a journal written by the Victorian-era owner, which detailed a number of experiments and observations.

He had a bad moment when Sherlock held the bag in his lap without comment. But then he suddenly turned to John and gave that singularly sweet smile that crept out every now and again. "Thank you, John. This is truly very interesting."

John's shoulders relaxed. "Well, I thought it would be something to play with, um, _investigate_ when you've got nothing on. Identify what's in the bottles, maybe try the experiments. The dealer said the owner was quite well-known for being an eccentric in his day."

"How very apt," Sherlock drawled. But then he started. "Oh—I just remembered." He darted over under the tree and pulled out a small box. "I wasn't sure... I asked…Mycroft helped," he stammered, while John slowly opened the box and caught his breath.

Inside was a man's silver signet-style ring. Not ostentatious or even especially valuable, but attractive, it included military insignias in enamelwork—insignias that John recognized. He turned it over and over in his hands, fighting the lump in his throat. He looked up at Sherlock and caught the anxious expression he was trying to hide. "I knew you had a number of decorations, but you never displayed them," Sherlock hurriedly said. "And I had seen a similar ring on one of Mycroft's military friends some time ago. It's permissible—I checked, well, Mycroft checked, to make sure it met all military regulations for display."

John had to clear his throat before he responded, aware of Sherlock's parents smiling from across the room. "Thank you, Sherlock. It's a very special gift indeed." And it made his day to see Sherlock blush and duck his head a bit before slapping his more-typical blank face back on.

At that point, Mellie, smiling broadly, jumped up and rummaged under the tree again, coming up with a large, heavy rectangular box. She walked over and placed it carefully in Sherlock's lap, with the air of someone conveying something quite precious. Sherlock looked at the box, then looked up at her, perplexed. "Go ahead then," she prodded, while Siger looked on expectantly.

Sherlock peeled the wrapping off the box and pulled off the lid, then seemed to come to a complete halt—John wasn't sure he was even breathing. He reached in and pulled out the contents—a _very_ old, very large book, covered in battered leather with gilt-edged pages and ancient brass clasps on the side. He smoothed his hands reverently over the binding, then looked to his mother, a bewildered expression on his face. " _Grandmere's_ bee compendium," he breathed. "How…?", he started, and could get no further.

Mellie plopped herself down on the sofa arm, running her palm fondly across Sherlock's cheek. "I knew how much you always wanted it. She would have left it to you, dear, you know that. But when she was so ill at the end, you were, you weren't…" Sherlock flinched, and she put her hand firmly under his chin and forced his face back up. "She wasn't _angry_ with you, sweetheart. She was just concerned that your illness would lead you to bad choices, and the book was both very valuable and very dear to her."

"More dear than I was, apparently," Sherlock choked out, his eyes squeezed shut and head back down.

Mellie leaned forward and snaked her arm around his shoulders. "No. Never that. She just didn't want to leave you with one more thing to reproach yourself for, once you recovered. And she was very sure you would recover, which is why this book is in your hands now."

Sherlock cleared his throat and lifted his head back up inquiringly, eyes just a bit too bright.

"You know she left the book to Rudy." Sherlock nodded. "What you don't know is that she also left him with a letter," she continued. "And that letter said that, when your family was convinced you were well enough, the book was to come to you. So earlier this month, your brother, without telling us, made a trip to France and gave Rudy his personal assurance that you were ready now to take on this charge." Mellie and Siger both beamed at Sherlock.

Sherlock's reaction, though, was not what John expected. He abruptly stood, placed the book gently on the sofa, and strode quickly out of the room. John shot out of his chair and started to follow, but Mellie stopped him, catching him by the arm. "No, dear. He'll be fine—this is a good thing. But he finds this level of emotion very unsettling, so he needs to deal with it on his own first. He'll be back."

And he was. Half an hour later, while John, Mellie and Siger were watching a Christmas concert on telly, Sherlock came ambling back into the room as if nothing had happened. His eyes were once again red and a bit puffed, but he now wore his normal self-assured look. He said nothing at all—just sat down on the sofa next to the box, then carefully picked up the book and set it on his lap before opening the clasps and flipping, slowly and with exquisite care, through the pages.

John got up and went to sit next to him on the sofa. After a bit, Sherlock noticed he was there and began speaking softly. "It's an incunabulum. That's a book printed prior to 1500. The Vernets were always early adopters of new technology, apparently." Siger, on his way out to the kitchen with Mellie, gave a genteel snort from across the room, but Sherlock ignored him. "It was printed in Geneva in 1497 for one of my many-times great-grandfathers. He was very interested in improving the yield and quality of the honey from his hives. He assembled bits of bee-keeping lore from all over the known world, and incorporated it in the text, which he wrote himself." He opened the book carefully to one particular page, containing an elaborate diagram of the inner workings of a beehive, as well as astoundingly detailed anatomical dissections of bees. "This is a woodcut of an original drawing made by a friend of my grandfather's in Milan. It is the only version known to exist." He looked up at John with an oddly shy expression. "His friend's name was Leonardo Da Vinci."

John leaned over so he could see the elaborate scrolling print and woodcut illustrations. "That's … amazing, really. Not just that something so old could survive in this condition, but that it stayed in the same family."

Sherlock hummed. "It's been handed down in each generation to the child most interested in bees." He stopped, looking distressed momentarily, then shook himself mentally and continued. "That was me, of course. _Grandmere_ would spend ages with both me and the book on her lap. It is one of my earliest memories."

John couldn't help but ask. "Then why…?"

Sherlock's face did something complicated and sad. "When my grandmother was dying, I was probably at my worst with drugs—living on the streets part of the time, actually. I entered rehab for the second time about a month later. They didn't tell me she had died until I had completed it." John wanted very badly to hug him, but restrained himself—wasn't sure it would be welcomed. And after a pause Sherlock continued. "She was right. She couldn't leave something so valuable to me, at least not then."

"So how valuable is it?" John asked carefully.

"They appraised it as part of Grandmere's estate at something above ₤200,000," Sherlock said absently, rubbing the binding again. "It's probably increased in the intervening years."

John managed not to choke, but it was a near thing. "Good God."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I would like to believe I would never have sold it," he said, very softly. "But on reflection, I can't be sure."

The next morning John was up early, earlier than Sherlock, in fact. He glanced over on leaving the loo and saw that Sherlock's door was still firmly closed. He, Mellie and Siger had finally wandered off to bed the night before at midnight, leaving Sherlock ensconced on the sofa, still caressing his book. No telling what time he finally came up to bed,

Christmas dinner had been lovely. Mellie's "crew" had put together an elegant spread that everyone enjoyed (even Sherlock, who crowed softly in delight at the sweets tray), and then cleared everything up in short order. Now, though, John had that typical Boxing Day feeling that he always mentally compared to a mild hangover. Too much food, a little too much wine, and in this case perhaps a little too much _feeling_. Even though no great scenes had played out, Christmas had clearly been a very emotional day for the Holmeses, and for John by proxy as well. He was a little sad to be leaving, actually. He had enjoyed this visit, and he really hadn't expected to. The Holmes family, as a whole, were just like Sherlock—always surprising, and occasionally in a _good_ way.

He had promised to go to Harry's for dinner this evening, and was regretting it (particularly so when Sherlock pointed out all the reasons why Harry would make it a miserable evening). It was clear that Sherlock didn't want him to leave, and Sherlock's parents had pressed him gently to stay as well. But the more he thought about it, the more he observed Sherlock over these two days, the surer he was that this visit was something Sherlock had needed very much, and needed to continue as long as he would tolerate it. And John had a feeling that his presence might reduce some of the benefits Sherlock was reaping out of this enforced stay.

Sherlock's parents _adored_ him. He was ashamed to admit he hadn't expected that. Somehow, he had always thought that at least part of Sherlock's icy reserve had come from a troubled, abused childhood. But he now had to rearrange his entire concept of Sherlock's history.

In the end, after delaying as long as he possibly could, he and Siger climbed into the car for the trip to the train station, 10 minutes away. His last view, looking out the rear window, was of Sherlock and his mum, Sherlock's arm casually around her shoulder while she waved (such things, of course, being beneath Sherlock himself). But he was pleased, so pleased, to see the relaxed near-smile on Sherlock's face.

Notes:

I know this may seem an odd chapter-that's partly why I called it an "interlude". But it seemed necessary, and in some ways it was one of my favorite parts to write.

As to Sherlock being a singer-I started out in college as a musician, and I was always struck by how many instrumentalists (me included) could also sing fairly well. Given that Sherlock is an exceptional violinist, I think it's entirely possible he would be an exceptional singer as well. And I just liked the idea of it being something John had never heard.


	9. We have heard no tidings of him

Sherlock stayed 10 days in Surrey, all told, and came back to London in an odd mood—a weird combination of relaxed and annoyed. John ultimately came to the conclusion that the visit itself had relieved some of the unrelenting stress he had felt since his return, but he was annoyed at the idea that he had needed anyone's help for that to happen. He was of course even more annoyed when John shared that analysis with him.

He met up with John and Mary for dinner at Angelo's on his birthday (for which he insisted that no one give him any gifts, was offended when he thought they had believed him, and not-very-secretly pleased at the tickets to a sold-out performance of _The Magic Flute_ they had Angelo hide under his dinner plate). If he suspected that Mycroft had been involved in the procurement of the impossible-to-get seats, he refrained from mentioning it. They all returned to Baker Street for cake with Mrs. Hudson (who also supplied a positively lethal American bourbon that had them slightly tipsy from a single glass). Sherlock, as usual, refused to have any alcohol, and happily made sneering comments about their respective inebriation levels while they played a rousing game of Charades (which Mrs. Hudson won, despite Sherlock's efforts to claim she was cheating). The visitors all trundled off at midnight, while Sherlock turned his attention to some very promising lung samples he received from Molly for his birthday.

Two days later, John was working a late shift at the surgery when he received a flurry of texts from Sherlock, each spaced roughly two minutes apart.

 _ **New case, Member of the peerage involved in smuggling drugs along with his cabbages. SH**_

 _ **Change that. Life peer only. Jumped-up former market gardener who married the right woman, evidently. Second marriage. Now on his fourth. SH**_

 _ **Interesting aspects. Four murders in addition to smuggling. Hidden room in historic mansion. SH**_

 _ **Yarders of course cannot find room. Need to see blueprints of building. Meeting Lestrade at 2 tomorrow, 14 Buddington Terrace. SH**_

 _ **You could come. If you like. SH**_

 _ **Tell Mary probably not dangerous. SH**_

And finally, after a slightly longer pause (since Sherlock had by this time noticed he hadn't replied, though he had clearly forgotten that John did actually have a job these days)…

 _ **But it might be dangerous. A little. SH**_

The house was almost as nice as the Holmes'. Big, historic, and well-kept, though it's close-to-London location meant that it huddled on a too-small lot surrounded by a host of McMansions. A large circular drive out front held two expensive sport cars, both shiny and newish.

Donovan let them in as she headed back out to the street, nodding to John and giving Sherlock an almost-smile, which was brutally snubbed by the intended recipient. John heard Donovan's small sigh behind them as they passed. Lestrade noticed, glancing over at Sherlock's retreating back as he headed towards the elegant stone staircase. "I know I should say something to him," he told John, very softly. "But I just can't figure out what." John gave him a look that was only slightly sympathetic. "Sorry. Not getting in the middle of that one, and you can't expect me to, now can you?" he said, not unkindly. Greg just nodded. A problem for another day.

Sherlock's voice drifted down from the top of the stairs. "I assume we are actually going to see the blueprints at some point?" he said, in a sharp tone.

"Yeah, yeah. Coming, Mathter," muttered Greg, as he and John trotted up the stairs.

The house was laid out oddly—the ground floor had been composed of a warren of smallish rooms, but the "public" rooms, a large sitting room, what had once been a ballroom, and an ornate dining room, were all on the first floor. At the back of the house in the far left corner was Lord Beckwith's office, a huge, airy Georgian room with elaborately-carved woodwork and a beautiful plaster ceiling. The room carried a pleasant odor of beeswax, lemon oil and old books. The vast desk, centered under two enormous windows, was a landing strip of carved, gleaming mahogany. In the far corner was a matching secretary, towering almost 9 feet high, with period brasses on its many drawers.

Greg moved towards the secretary, talking over his shoulder. "His PA says the blueprints are in the big drawer over here. But we should also search his desk. John, you and Sherlock can deal with that."

John started forward, only to come to an abrupt stop when he realized that Sherlock was standing stock-still in the doorway, his hands flicking nervously at his sides. "Sherlock?" he asked quietly, trying not to alert Lestrade. "Everything OK?"

Sherlock swallowed roughly before he spoke, in what tried to be a dismissive tone. "Of course. I'm going to check the estate office off the kitchen. Bring the plans down there." And he spun on his heels and was gone. John hesitated, not wanting to leave him alone but also not wanting to make a fuss unnecessarily. Lestrade solved his dilemma by straightening up from the secretary with a happy "Aha! Got 'em," a roll of blueprints in his hand.

They clattered back down the stairs and headed into the vast marble-clad kitchen, where Sherlock appeared as if nothing had happened. "Spread them on the island," he said curtly. "I give us five minutes to find whatever it is Lord Beckwith was so anxious that we not see."

In the end, it took a bit longer than that (and John could see Sherlock visibly becoming more wound-up as time passed, but still wasn't sure of the source). His eyes met Greg's over Sherlock's back at one point, but all he could give to Greg's raised eyebrows was a perplexed shrug. Finally, though, Sherlock slapped his hand down on the plans in satisfaction. "Got him!" he barked, and strode out of the room, assuming, as usual, that everyone would tail along behind.

And, of course, they did.

Sherlock led them back up the staircase, to the other side of the house from the office. He went into what had once been a large airing cupboard beneath the stairs, fiddled with the shelves here and there, and suddenly the entire back wall of the cupboard slid open, revealing a small windowless room, stocked floor-to-ceiling on three sides with painted wooden drawers. Sherlock threw a smug look back over his shoulder and shot inside.

They were looking primarily for records of any kind—specifically, records of Lord Beckwith's illicit participation in a drug smuggling operation, using his existing farm-to-market trucking interests as a front. Lestrade (and thereby Sherlock) had become involved when an investigative reporter found that four unsolved homicides had all been employees of farming operations supplying Lord Beckwith's warehouses. The presumption was that the victims had seen or heard something they shouldn't and become an inconvenience. And the icing on the cake, from Sherlock's point of view, was that Lord Beckwith's third ex-wife, an avaricious ex-stripper named (improbably) Bunnie, claimed that Lord B. had vast amounts of information stored, _in hard copy_ , in a secret spot somewhere in the house. Sherlock had practically cackled with glee. "He's a Luddite _and_ an idiot," he said. "A perfect mix. The man doesn't even have a mobile phone because he's so concerned about spies and informants. But he's stupid enough to actually write down _and keep_ written records on highly illegal activities. Who's he keeping it for? Inland Revenue?"

So here, presumably, were the records of years of misdeeds. It was liking handing a personal gift to the legal system.

Sherlock immediately went over and started hauling open drawers and dropping papers randomly on the floor when he decided they weren't interesting enough, while Lestrade stepped out to call in help in collecting the evidence and John volunteered to go tell Donovan. They were both outside the hidden room, then, when they heard a sudden clanking noise and turned to see the opening to the hidden room abruptly sliding shut with Sherlock still inside. John had one brief view of Sherlock's startled, alarmed gaze before the panel slid shut with a heavy thud.

"Bugger!" barked Greg, slapping at the false wall as if that would magically open it back up. John ran his hands over the shelving and back panels, trying to find the hidden lever. Greg stepped back and sighed. "And of course, the one who knows how to open the thing is stuck inside," he muttered. He pulled out his mobile and hit Sherlock's number on speed-dial, frowning slightly when he didn't get a response. "Maybe there's no reception inside?" He turned and looked questioningly at John.

John stepped forward and rapped on the wall, hard. "Sherlock!" he shouted, at the top of his lungs. "How do we open this?" Silence. Surely the bloody room wasn't sound-proofed; what would be the point? Of course, Sherlock was perfectly capable of ignoring him if he had found something particularly interesting in those drawers…but John couldn't quite shake that last view of Sherlock's eyes. "Let me try something else," he said, and rapped again on the wall, this time in a distinct pattern. Sherlock knew Morse code, and even if he couldn't hear voices it was very unlikely he wouldn't hear the sharp impacts on the panels.

 _ **Tell us how to open the door.**_

Silence. He started again.

 _ **Answer me, you berk. I know you can hear this.**_

They waited again, until even Lestrade was beginning to feel a shimmer of unease. John tried one more time.

 _ **Answer me or we're getting a crowbar. And won't you look silly when we pry you out like an oyster.**_

They waited again, and now John was certain there was something wrong. Sherlock would never willingly put himself in a potentially embarrassing position with the Yard staffers present. He caught Greg's arm. "We need to get an axe or something. Even if he can't hear us, he would have gotten himself out by now. Maybe the room is booby-trapped somehow."

Greg nodded, and headed outside while John continued to look for the switch for the false wall. In short order Greg came hustling back with a long prybar and a tire lever, which he handed off to John. They wedged their respective tools into the narrow opening where the false wall met the real one, and shoved with all their might. At first John was afraid they were going to have to go ask for additional help, but then there was a sudden sharp cracking sound and the panel reluctantly popped open slightly at the seam. They hurriedly shoved their tools in the fault line and gave another joint heave, and the panel slowly slid back open.

As soon as there was enough of an opening John shoved hard and pushed his way inside, heart in his throat when he saw Sherlock lying on his back on the floor, hands limp at his side. John skidded to his knees beside him while Greg grabbed his phone and called for assistance.

John reached out to check Sherlock's carotid pulse, then assessed his breathing. Heartbeat fast and thready, breathing shallow. He slapped gently at Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" Nothing happened initially. He slapped harder—still no response. Finally, he reached out and rolled his knuckles firmly down the middle of Sherlock's sternum, and was rewarded with a slight flinch, followed by a groan. Those dark eyelashes fluttered, fluttered, and finally slid apart, to reveal Sherlock's wondering gaze. His eyes rolled around the room briefly before coming back to rest on John's face, the crease between his eyes deep. "John?" he said weakly, still clearly very confused.

John leaned over and slid his arm under Sherlock's shoulders, preparing to help him sit up, when suddenly Sherlock jerked as if electrocuted. He threw himself up onto his hands and knees, knocking John inadvertently to one side in the process. Then, just as Greg came back into the room, a concerned frown on his face, Sherlock scrambled to his feet and hurtled past Greg, out of the room and tearing full-speed down the hallway to the stairs.

John and Greg gave each other a blank look, and then John hurried to his feet and tore off after Sherlock. He dashed out the front door and saw Sally Donovan standing, perplexed, at the base of the steps. As if reading his mind, she lifted her arm and pointed silently around the side of the house.

Sherlock was there. On his knees, his arms wrapped tightly about himself. He rocked back and forth, breathing noisily as he tried to wrestle himself back under control. As John crouched beside him, his head jerked slightly to the side in acknowledgment as he tried to speak. "The door," he gasped. "The door. The door _closed_." He squeezed his eyes shut and rocked.

And all of sudden John felt unbelievably _thick_. "Jesus," he muttered, as his hand rubbed up and down Sherlock's back. "You're claustrophobic."

That, at least, seemed to have a positive effect. Sherlock gave a weak snort. He shot a Look through his lashes at John, finally managing to stop the rocking but keeping his arms tightly wrapped still. "Of course I'm bloody claustrophobic. You know my history. How could I _not_ be?" he rasped, voice uneven and harsh.

John didn't try to pursue it any further at that point. He left Sherlock long enough to go in and let Greg know what had happened, then manhandled a still-trembling Sherlock into Mary's car (which he was fervently glad to have with him today, all things considered) and drove him back to Baker Street. It wasn't a long trip, thankfully. Sherlock glared silently out the window the entire way, and John wasn't inclined to push him. When they got to Baker Street, Sherlock climbed stiffly out of the car and walked unsteadily up the stairs like an old man. He staggered over and dropped limply onto the couch, sliding back to rest his head on the back and his hands loosely in his lap. John reached over for the tatty afghan draped over the back of his chair and draped it across Sherlock's lap, then prepared cups of tea, with extra honey in Sherlock's.

Sherlock puffed out a breath and sat up a bit to take the tea, sipping it without comment. The silence stretched, until he finally gave a long-suffering sigh. "All right. Ask," he said resignedly. John didn't pretend to not know what he meant.

"How could I not have seen?" he began. "I mean—we spent _hours_ standing in cupboards, packing crates, any number of small spaces." Sherlock gave him a pointed look. "And where was I standing, in each and every case?" he asked.

John thought for a moment, and then realized. Sherlock saw the light dawn. "Exactly. I _always_ stood in front, where I could see out the opening. It wasn't ever comfortable, but so long as I could see…and of course your presence helped," he admitted in a rush, not without a bit of a color rising on his cheeks. "But," John started, and Sherlock raised his brows in a "what now?" kind of way. "We were even locked in a car boot once." But even as he said it, Sherlock nodded. "And what happened?"

"Well, you were unconscious for the last half of it, now that I think of it. You'd been hit in the head," John said, only to see Sherlock's smirk. "No, I hadn't. I just let you think I had, since I couldn't come up with any other excuse for swooning like a Victorian maiden." John, of course, took issue with that characterization, but Sherlock had recovered enough to wave a dismissive hand. He swallowed the rest of his tea, stood and walked off into his bedroom, presumably to change or brood. Maybe both.

John was abruptly startled out of his contemplation of Sherlock's closed bedroom door by the chiming of his phone. Greg wanted Sherlock's help in interpreting the large masses of material recovered from the hidden room, with an eye to hopefully tying Lord B. directly to the murders. So John, reluctantly, agreed to help Sherlock (assuming he ever came out of his bedroom) with that process, if Greg would have the papers delivered to Baker Street. On a whim, he called Mary and asked if she wanted to come "join them in an investigation". Once he told her that it would basically entail wading through stacks of unsorted papers for several hours, though, she laughingly declined and told him she'd expect him when she saw him.

In the end, he stayed the night. Sherlock wandered back out of his bedroom when John had Chinese delivered (hungry for once, evidently). Lestrade dropped the boxes of papers by while they were eating, and John endured an awkward, silent conversation where Greg gave Sherlock the once-over (raised eyebrows/no smile/dropped chin: " _ **All right, then**_?") and Sherlock looked at him briefly and then returned to his plate (direct look/one raised brow/raised chin: " _ **Of course.**_ ") John shook his head, bemused that he still remembered how to interpret this ridiculous form of non-speech, even after two years apart.

Greg left virtually immediately, lucky bastard. The two of them, then, dumped the four large boxes and started sorting through the vast trivia of Lord B.'s life. While they did run across occasional useful bits (like the record of large amounts of money transferred illicitly on a monthly basis to a bank in Dubai, suggestive of either blackmail or some sort of criminal partnership), for the most part it instilled a skull-banging level of boredom. No one really wanted to know where Lord B. purchased his sex toys, or how much he paid for his last four suits, did they?

After the second time John found himself waking up with his forehead resting on the desk, Sherlock herded him off to bed, though John was unsuccessful in persuading Sherlock to go as well. When John woke at 2 am and stumbled down the stairs for a trip to the loo, though, he found Sherlock on his side on the sofa, wrapped tightly in the old afghan and breathing evenly.

John heard the noise and was reaching for his non-existent gun before he was awake enough to realize where he was—lying on his old bed in his dusty, disused room. He had lain back down momentarily in relief, thinking he had been awakened by some sound from the street, when he realized that Sherlock was standing at the foot of the bed, disheveled and distressed. He was shivering, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as if he was trying unsuccessfully to keep them still. "I need…can we…," he ground to a halt, shifting from one bare foot to the other. He shook his head roughly, as if to break free of something. "You said we could talk," he finally said, refusing to make eye contact.

"Of course we can," John said, carefully keeping his tone even. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, resisting the urge to reach out to Sherlock. "Would you like to do that here, or would you rather go back downstairs?" Sherlock jerked his head towards the door, swallowing roughly. "Downstairs. Downstairs is better." He padded out the door, not waiting to see if John was coming.

It was bitterly cold downstairs, the timer for the heat not due to kick back on for another two hours. John busied himself with setting up a fire in the fireplace, partly to give Sherlock time to decide where he wanted to sit. He heard shuffling behind him and turned to see Sherlock pushing both chairs close to the fireplace, then settling himself in his. Once the fire was burning well, John stood and put the kettle on to boil, then detoured into Sherlock's bedroom and came back with his duvet and an extra blanket for himself. Instead of tea, he used the hot water to mix up instant hot chocolate, a new vice of Sherlock's that he had brought back with him from his time Away. He brought the two cups back with him, handed Sherlock one, and settled in his own chair.

He waited for several minutes while Sherlock stared at the fire and sipped his chocolate. Just as John was about to speak, Sherlock suddenly did. "I've always been claustrophobic. Well, since I was 9," he said quietly. "It had gotten better over time. I understand that sometimes happens. But while I was Away…" his voice trailed off, then picked back up again. "Something happened. It…there was a room." He was clearly struggling now, both to keep speaking and to keep control of his voice when he did. "I can't…it keeps running through my head every time I shut my eyes."

John leaned forward and touched his knee. "Then why don't you tell me about it, and maybe bringing it out into the open will help," he said, in as neutral a tone as he could muster. He waited, sipping his chocolate and trying to look as patient as possible. And finally, just as he thought it wouldn't happen, Sherlock put down his cup, laced his hands tightly together and began to talk.

 _Fort Douaumont—Verdun, France—December_

 _As Sherlock hurried down the dripping, chill tunnel under the old stone fortress, he realized how much Mycroft would have loved this as a child—spending hours wandering around this World War I relic that had been the source of tales told to their Grandpere Vernet by his father, a boy soldier of 17 at the time of the Dante-esque battle over Verdun and the fort._

 _Sherlock, on the other hand, found it damp, cold, and unsettling. There was an oppressive air in the miles of tunnels under the fort. Someone of a fanciful disposition would have attributed it to the roughly 300,000 souls lost in the surrounding area. Or perhaps to the bones of the 100,000 unidentified soldiers lying in stacks in the ossuary not far away. He had never been fanciful, certainly, but if asked to describe the scent of this place, his answer would have been "despair". It smelt of despair._

 _Or maybe he was just projecting._

 _Of course, the current circumstances probably colored his perception. Spending days underground as a renegade chemist didn't lend one to a positive frame of mind. And given that he was simultaneously working for terrorists and against terrorists, his energy and time spent trying to keep his two lives, two identities, reliably separate, the situation was not a recipe for a sunny outlook._

 _Because the truth of the matter was, he had been trapped. Not physically (at least not entirely), but trapped by circumstance, long after he had planned to assemble his evidence and disappear into the night, figuratively speaking. His current identity, ironically, was the problem. Probably the most-harmless one he'd had to date; he was currently impersonating his own cousin. Hilaire Vernet was a first-rate chemist in his own right. Five years older than Sherlock, dark ginger hair, a shade over an inch shorter, but otherwise reasonably close in physical appearance. Contact lenses gave Sherlock his light brown eyes, and copious amounts of product enabled him to mask the curl to his hair, since Hilaire's was stick-straight. The best part about Hilaire, from Sherlock's point of view, was that he was currently working at a secret laboratory in Brazil, on a project of Mycroft's, so no one knew that he wasn't also working at an illicit chemical weapons factory buried in obsolete tunnels under a World War I historical monument._

 _The negative aspect of this was that "Hilaire" had proved to be a little too good at his job. The success of this operation depending on Sherlock being able to collect and pass on shipment information on the lethal products he was helping to create. He did what he could to subtly sabotage the components, but everything he created had to pass a comprehensive set of quality tests before shipping, so his ability to taint the product was limited. He couldn't simply pretend to be incompetent, either—he had witnessed the fate of two co-workers who proved incapable of carrying the workload without critical mistakes. Gave product testing a whole new slant, certainly, but not one he wanted to participate in._

 _But because of the attendant shortage of skilled help, Sherlock's work had begun to consume every working hour. And given that he was now mission-critical, the amoral bastards running this operation decided it was required that he be watched at all times when he wasn't physically in the laboratory. Discreetly, of course—no one felt that he was a problem of any kind (Hilaire was considerably softer than Sherlock, physically and mentally, and Sherlock had stayed very much in character), nor did they necessarily want to upset their star worker. He had made it abundantly clear that he had no idea he wasn't involved in a legitimate government project, so there were no potential crises of conscience to concern them either. But he always had at least one shadow, to ensure that he didn't aimlessly wander away and harm himself accidentally in the abandoned tunnels (because Hilaire was also notoriously clumsy). Sherlock was very tired of intentionally throwing himself against "unseen" obstacles and landing on his arse. But maintaining that bumbling aspect of his persona was essential—he needed to be certain that no one saw him as a physical threat._

 _He had been unable, for more than a month now, to break away and give his report, nor had he been able to pass off his now-vast store of evidence for Interpol that would result both in the shutdown of this laboratory and in the collapse of at least two major terrorist insurgencies via the loss of their primary funding source. In desperation, three weeks ago he had used his burner phone to send a coded message to Mycroft, asking for assistance in departure. He had received a one-sentence reply within an hour: "Cousin Deline is coming for a visit tomorrow." He destroyed and flushed the phone immediately—another would presumably find its way into his possession when "Cousin Deline" arrived._

 _The following day a new laboratory aide was ushered in while Sherlock was running the latest batch of quality tests. The tall blond woman came over, looked at his notes and the equipment he was using, and proceeded to predict the expected results with startling accuracy. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, impressed despite himself. The woman gave him a sardonic look and held out her hand. "Deline Ebert," she said. "I'm your new assistant. And surprisingly enough, I do actually know what the fuck I'm doing." Sherlock surprised himself with the snort of laughter he emitted._

 _The two of them settled into a comfortable, efficient work routine, and Sherlock continued to be pleased both by her competency and by her level of comfortable sarcasm. He hit upon a way for them to have a chance to talk about their other concerns two days after she arrived._

 _Sherlock knew that their openings for "alone time" would be extremely limited. On reflection, then, he decided the most straightforward approach would be for Hilaire to acquire a sudden infatuation with Deline. Deline seemed to take considerable enjoyment from their awkward "courtship" (because Hilaire, on top of everything else, was paralytically shy with women). She found it particularly hilarious to tease "Hilaire" in front of Sherlock's guards as their faux romance progressed. They ate lunch and dinner together every day, and Sherlock made a point of visibly bringing her small treats and hand-made gifts. Once he even managed to create a fake "blush" by holding his breath at the opportune time. Deline chuckled. "You're absurd," she breathed, barely audible. Sherlock smiled, a real smile this time._

 _Shortly after Deline arrived, another burner phone mysteriously appeared, tucked into one of his shoes in the wardrobe cupboard. Two new high-capacity memory sticks were also included. Deline had apparently brought them with her and taken the opportunity to place them there, since she wasn't watched to the degree that he was._

 _Finally, finally, today he had the opening he was looking for. He had carefully loaded the memory sticks with his collated evidence; he kept one copy with him at all times, and the other concealed behind the light switch in his room. This afternoon, almost three weeks after Deline arrived, his "boss", Maxim Laborde, announced that they would be closing the laboratory for 24 hours to do a deep-clean of all the production equipment in preparation for moving to a new product line. It was a Godsend—a chance to get both him and Deline out of harm's way while setting the Interpol and MI6 dogs loose on this operation._

 _Sherlock set things in motion immediately. He didn't advise Deline of the plan just yet. She was sharp enough to jump onboard once things were aligned properly._

 _He waited until Maxim left the lab, and then wandered over to his guard/shadow of the moment, Auguste. "Um. I wonder…could you possibly…" he stammered, wringing his hands while looking mostly at his shoes. He risked a glance up at the guard through his lashes, and saw an indulgent fondness on the man's face. Excellent. He fluttered a bit longer, then got hesitantly to the point. "I would like very much to have the evening with Deline. Alone." He swallowed heavily and bobbed his head again before continuing. "The whole evening," he said, with theatrical emphasis on "whole"._

 _He gave Auguste a shy, hopeful look, and was pleased to see indecision there. "Please," he whispered, his heart (falsely) in his eyes. He had perfected that look by the time he was 8—it rarely failed. It didn't fail now._

" _My shift runs until midnight. I guess I can tell Claude that I will take his place for the night shift as well. That will give you until 6. I will come knock on your door in the morning when Deline must leave. But you mustn't leave the room, OK?" Auguste said earnestly._

 _Sherlock bobbed his head energetically. "Of course, of course. I can't thank you enough!" he burbled. He backed over towards Deline, smiling back at Auguste all the while. He reached Deline's side and grabbed her hand in an adoring fashion, putting it briefly to his lips while she looked on in bemused affection. "Let's go," he breathed. She blinked but came along willingly enough._

 _Once they were far enough away, he dropped both his pretense and Deline's hand. "You need to go right now and get anything you need to bring, and then come to my room. We need to be out of here as soon as possible. We'll go out through the gate into the tourist area, then steal a car from the visitor's parking lot. It's only just past 6 now—there still should be a few people here." He suddenly realized she had stopped short in the hallway, a blank expression on her face. "Oh, come now," he said impatiently. "This can't be all new to you. Did Mycroft give you an exit route, or a safe house location where we can wait to be picked up?"_

 _She seemed to shake herself mentally before giving him an indulgent smile. "You just shocked me, you obnoxious creature. I expected we would plan this escape together. Should have known better, given how devious you are." She looked down the corridor towards her room. "Give me ten minutes to get my things, then. I do have a meet location—I just need to let the Powers That Be know we're on the move." Sherlock sneered. "That's not what I usually call him." He looked at his watch. "Be back at my room by 6:15. I have one or two things to do as well."_

 _So now, finally, he was heading back to his miserable cell of a room for the final time. He'd been in worse places, of course (recently, even—he spent three weeks sleeping in the forest four months ago, running from an obsessively persistent assassin). But he was nonetheless glad to see the back of this cave-like, sterile environment. He swept mentally through the contents of the room—no need to take any of his clothing with him, as there was a cache awaiting him just outside Paris of much-better clothes than he currently wore. He pulled the new burner phone out of the shoe in the cupboard and sent a single, simple message—the GPS coordinates of the wall containing the light switch, and the memory stick, followed by the word "Now". He estimated that Interpol and MI6 would arrive within three hours._

 _He debated destroying the phone now, but decided to take it—it might prove useful in the trip to the safe house. He pulled off his right shoe and tucked the phone into his sock, maneuvering it until it slid under his instep, then put the shoe back on. He slid the extra memory stick into a slit he had prepared in the inner seam of the collar of his jacket, then slid his arms into the heavy down coat he'd found hanging in the wardrobe of the empty room next door. He hadn't spent much time above ground recently, but he knew from his guards that it was very cold out, with some snow on the ground. He finished one last comprehensive look around the room as Deline tapped on the door and slid inside._

" _Well, you're efficient, aren't you?" she said with a smile. She, too, was wearing a coat, though not as heavy as Sherlock's. She looked closely at it now. "Where'd you get that? Antarctica?"_

 _Sherlock made a rude hand gesture but ignored the comment. "You don't have anything to carry?" he asked._ _She shook her head. "It's all in my pockets. I didn't have anything I cared about with me anyway. I was just here for you, to see you got out OK." She looked up at him expectantly. "Can we get moving now?"_

" _I was just waiting for you," he sniffed. He opened the door to the corridor, popped his head out, then held his hand out to her. "Let's go. We need the coats, but if we're seen with them we might as well walk up to Maxim and confess to save time." She swept out the door in his wake, and they hustled off towards the little-used tunnel that connected with the tourist sections of the fort._

 _They made it easily out of the fort, as it happened. There were just enough tourists leaving to enable them to mingle easily enough. On reflection, Sherlock decided to steal a car from the employee parking lot—likely to be more time before the theft was discovered. They found an older Ford, not fancy but dependable, that conveniently had been left with the doors unlocked. "Well it was clearly meant for us, then," said Sherlock, with a manic grin. He quickly hot-wired the ignition and the car roared into life. He looked over the gauges and smiled again. "And half a tank of petrol, to boot." He put the car in gear and headed for the exit to the park complex._

 _Deline suddenly gave a delighted laugh, and he looked over to see her grinning ear to ear. "That was amazing!" she breathed. "I've never done anything like that in my life." He snorted. "Good Lord. Don't tell me this is your first time doing field work. Mycroft must be short of help." She hesitated, then recovered and reached over to slap his arm. "Don't be rude. I'm primarily a laboratory analyst, you know. They had to send someone with the right skill set."_

 _Sherlock felt he'd maybe, possibly, been a bit unfair. "You… you actually did quite well," he said. "For someone new to this."_

 _She blinked. "Well. Thank you. If you keep being this nice I'm going to worry about you, though." She gave him a sly grin, and he huffed and relaxed._

" _So," he said, waving one arm over the snow-covered countryside before them, "how far are we going? What kind of accommodations can I look forward to?" Deline smirked. "I think you'll be impressed," she said. "And surprised." She pulled out a mobile phone from her pocket (noticing Sherlock's envious glance—he'd been without a real one for more than two months now) and pulled up a map application. "We have about a two-hour drive, looks like. When you get to the main road, take a left, then head west when we reach the motorway."_

 _Sherlock actually enjoyed the drive. After so long spent primarily underground, the exposure to open air and sky, even a night sky, was an unexpected pleasure. The car, plain as it was, was nonetheless comfortable and Deline was good company—well-read, smart, and snarky, though woefully ignorant of music and any science other than chemistry._

 _After almost two hours, Deline's phone informed them that they needed to leave the motorway and turn off onto a series of country roads. They moved further and further away from civilization, it seemed. Sherlock was just about to demand that Deline re-calibrate their location when the phone suddenly announced that they had arrived at their destination. He stopped the car in the middle of the lane and looked around, perplexed. Deline pointed to their right, a mischievous smile on her face. "Over there. Take that little avenue through the trees."_

 _Mystified but reluctant to admit it, he did as directed and steered the car through the tiny opening in the overgrown brush and trees along the side of the lane. Almost immediately, though, it became clear that this was no casual byway—the track opened up into a wide, graveled path lined on either side with carefully-planted trees. Carefully planted some two hundred and fifty years ago, in fact. "It's an allee," he breathed. "A very old one."_

 _Deline gave him a delighted smile. "Yes indeed. And just wait till you see what's at the end."_

 _Shortly thereafter, they reached the end of the allee. At its end, a broad, rolling open lawn stretched in front of them, and at the far side of that expanse, almost glowing in the moon's reflection off the snow, loomed a huge, beautiful, ancient building. "It's a chateau," Sherlock said, somewhat stunned to come across this gem so far off the beaten path. "Mid-18_ _th_ _century."_

" _Yes it is," said Deline, smugly. "I knew you'd be impressed." At her direction, Sherlock drove around the back of the building and parked the car out of sight inside a large stone stables that was not in quite as good repair as the rest of the house. They then walked up to the rear portico while Deline continued to chatter about the impressive building._

" _Business associates of mine bought it about a year ago and started the restoration. It wasn't quite derelict, but it had been abandoned since the mid-90s. It was used as a boys' school up until then, so there was never a period where it was completely empty up until the past 20 years or so." They passed now through a vast open entryway and up a grand curving staircase to the first floor. The stairs were lit by moonlight flooding through a vast set of floor-to-ceiling windows, but no interior lights. "At the moment there's only power to a few sections of the house. We can wait in my favorite—I call it 'the Cabinet', using the old meaning of the word."_

 _As they came to the first-floor landing, Deline strode over to one wall and flipped a switch. A generator kicked in somewhere down the hall and a host of lights suddenly popped on. She then turned down the right-hand corridor and stopped at a small doorway about halfway along, turning back to Sherlock as she grabbed the beautiful brass door handle. She grinned. "Close your eyes?" she asked. He huffed and ignored her, and she relented and opened the door. She stepped out of his way and ushered him inside, then stood looking at him expectantly_

 _Sherlock stopped, amazed. It was clear to see why Deline described this as a "cabinet"—in times past, a "cabinet" could be a small, enclosed chamber used for a special purpose. In this case, the special purpose had apparently been for some sort of study or research. Three walls of the room had the most beautifully carved woodwork Sherlock had ever seen. This was the work of a true master. The wall to the right of the door was simply paneled, the carving confined to ornate chair- and crown molding. But the themes of those carvings continued around the corner to the next two walls, which contained dozens of drawers and compartments of every size, some partially concealed by the exuberant carved decorations. Looking back, he saw that the inside of the door was also covered in the same panels—it would blend seamlessly into the wall, once closed._

 _The room was pungent with a strong scent of lemon, beeswax and oil—someone had lovingly polished these surfaces, over and over, to restore them to their original beauty. It was a heady scent, but quite pleasant—it reminded Sherlock, oddly, of home. His mother used lemon and beeswax._

 _The third wall had apparently been the victim of a past remodeling. The original woodwork had been stripped away and lost, leaving the bare stone walls. But someone was now in the process of recreating the original—one section of sturdy oak framework had already been installed, and a host of woodworking tools, including chisels and a heavy-duty pneumatic nailer, were strewn across the floor. The new construction added another pleasant element of cut wood to the swirling scents in the room._

 _Sherlock belatedly realized that he had been silently evaluating the room and its history for quite some time. He looked over at Deline, to see her grin again at his reaction. "Told you," she said._

 _There were two folding chairs that the workmen had left in the next room, and a small cooler that contained remnants of their lunch, evidently. Deline brought the cheese, wine and oranges back to the Cabinet, and Sherlock dragged the chairs in and turned on the electric heater he found sitting in the back corner of the room. He had been so fascinated he hadn't even realized how cold it was until he finally started to warm up._

 _They ended up eating all of the food (Sherlock finding himself surprisingly hungry) and drinking a little bit too much of the mediocre wine. They both made use of the chemical toilet down the hall (no running water yet, sadly). Sherlock settled on the floor in front of the heater. When Deline came back, she had found two cups and one more bottle of wine, better quality than what they'd already had. She had already poured each of them a substantial portion. She handed Sherlock his cup and settled down beside him. He sipped it—it was indeed much better than what had gone before. He rolled it across his tongue, swallowed, and took another mouthful._

 _Deline, definitely a bit tipsy now, giggled softly. "You're very posh, you know." He gave an offended sniff. "I'm educated. Contrary to popular opinion, it's not a character defect." He paused. "Although in my brother's case, it may well be." He smirked at her, realizing that he, too, was a bit tipsy._

 _Deline laughed. "Who the fuck is your brother, now? Come to that, what's your real name? I'm tired of calling you 'Hilaire'," she asked, and waited expectantly._

 _And Sherlock found himself abruptly sober and horrified. He tried, he really tried, to keep his reaction from his face, but wasn't quite quick enough._

 _Deline sighed. "Well, damn. I'm supposed to know your name, aren't I?" She put her cup down on the floor and stood up. Sherlock started to rise himself, when he suddenly found himself falling onto his side. Deline reached over and touched his face. "Don't worry. It's nothing dangerous, it'll just put you to sleep for a bit. My people won't be here for another 8 hours or so, and I couldn't take a chance on you wanting to leave." Her figure was starting to blur now, though Sherlock fought to stay conscious. "If you help us, they won't hurt you. I'll tell them not to."_

 _And then everything funneled quickly away._

Notes:

I'm sorry, I'm sorry-another cliffhanger. But I really couldn't help it-otherwise we'd have a 25-page "chapter".

Fort Douaumont, Verdun and the ossuary are all real, as are the numbers of casualties cited.

And apparently there are indeed abandoned chateaux just sitting in the middle of France. If you're interested, here is the inspiration for my chateau. Personally I wish I could go visit:

the-project


	10. Escape with thy life

Notes:

FAIR WARNING-This chapter deals with graphic violence and its aftermath. It is, in some instances, brutal. Please be aware of that if you're sensitive to it.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 _The Chateau_

 _Sherlock swam slowly back to consciousness, uncomfortable and confused. Someone was calling a name, but it wasn't his. That someone, though, apparently expected him to respond, as they were patting his face as they called._

 _"Hilaire. Come on now, Hilaire. Open those gorgeous eyes, won't you? I'm so bored by myself. Speaking of your eyes—I took your contact lenses out. Hope you don't mind. They're even prettier now than they were before."_

 _Memory slotted back into place, slowly. His head hurt and he was mildly nauseous. He found himself unable to move his arms. As his vision cleared, he realized he was sitting on the floor, his arms spread wide and secured with rope to the stout wood framing of the Cabinet's new wall. Deline was leaning over him expectantly._ _"There you are," she said delightedly. "See, I told you it wouldn't hurt you. You had a nice long nap, and tying you up wasn't any trouble at all." She gave a quick laugh. "You really need to eat more, you know? I don't think you weigh much more than I do." He gave her a dazed look; if she thought him more helpless than he was, she might get sloppy._

 _She went over and grabbed one of the folding chairs, plopping herself down next to him. "So, not who you thought I was, obviously. I did come because of your message to Mycroft Holmes, it's true—at least I assume it was your message, since there wasn't anyone else there who fit the bill as an agent needing retrieval, and you certainly know who Mycroft Holmes is. But the thing is, Mycroft Holmes doesn't know me. He may have sent his own little helper, but that's not me. I just have friends who make it their business to know all about anyone who has contact with the Great Man."_

_She reached into her pocket and pulled out the memory stick he had secreted in his coat seam. "Yeah, I found this too. I know you were planning to sic Interpol on Maxim, but that's a sweet little operation he has going, and my own people are very interesting in buying in. Well, taking over, actually, but 'buying in' sounds more business-like, you know?"_ _Sherlock glared at her. His mind was still foggy, but was starting to draw conclusions and make tentative plans. It was clear that Mycroft had a mole of sorts—some back door into what should have been his most-secure communications. That would have to be addressed, fairly soon. Beyond that, though, Deline was apparently aligned with a significant and sophisticated criminal organization (though not, it would seem, part of Moriarty's legacy), and falling into their hands would be very bad indeed._

 _On the plus side, Deline didn't know about the other memory stick. The Interpol/MI6 raid on Maxim's facility was almost certainly already underway. But that would make things even more difficult with her masters, if they were anticipating taking over that lucrative operation._

 _Deline, annoyingly, was still talking. "So here's my proposition. I like you. You're smart and a very good chemist. When my people roll in, they're going to need a lead scientist to keep things moving, and that could be you." She leaned her head to one side, like an inquisitive bird. "Now I know you probably have all of these, oh, moral concerns, good little secret agent that you are. But it comes down to one choice. You can come with us, and be rich, and comfortable, and, oh yes, alive. Or you can be difficult, and moral, and dead." She gave him a suddenly sober look. "And I'd hate that, Hilaire. I really would."_

 _And Sherlock believed her. Insofar as she was capable, Deline cared for him, at least enough to not want him dead. But it was crystal clear now that Deline had only a nodding acquaintance with morality, and (he did appreciate the irony here) was evidently a true sociopath. In safer circumstances he would have found this amusing. Right now, though, it was less than helpful—Deline, very likely, had no "better side"' to which he could appeal._

 _His delay in response was apparently as much of an answer as Deline needed. She sighed and stood up. "Well fuck. I was afraid of that. I'm not completely giving up yet, you know—we have some very persuasive people in our ranks." She looked at her watch. "And some of them will be here in about 4 hours. So now that I have you settled, I'm going to have a little nap myself. It's going to be a busy day ahead." She grinned, then settled herself on the floor in front of the heater, her back to him and her head pillowed on her arms._

 _As soon as her breathing evened out, Sherlock set himself to working his hands free. It wasn't going to be a quick process; the rope was a plastic base rather than hemp, with much less give than a natural product. And someone had taught Deline to tie knots very well. He knew that if he had to he could likely dislocate one of his thumbs, but wanted to keep that option in reserve. So he worked at flexing and stressing the ropes both at the knots and at the points where they wrapped around the oak supports, hoping to create enough fraying to snap some of the strands._

 _He had been working for roughly 45 minutes when he heard footsteps coming cautiously up the stairs and down the hallway. Heavy footsteps—a man, very likely. He looked over at Deline—still blissfully asleep. Perhaps she had been at the wine again while he slept. Or her admitted inexperience in field work was coming back to bite her. Unfortunately, it just might end up biting him as well._ _He debated waking Deline before the man reached them. But in the end he didn't—it was entirely possible that this was Mycroft's real agent coming to his (belated) rescue._

 _His first view of the intruder put paid to that hope, when Maxim Laborde walked slowly into the room. He looked around, noted Sherlock secured to the wall, and nodded. Then he walked over and gave Deline a brisk kick in the ribs. Deline squalled and rolled away from him, then came to her feet like an outraged cat, at which point Maxim strode over and grabbed her by the hair._ _"Now, girl, that's enough. You sit yourself down and behave while we have a little conversation," he snapped. His voice carried a surprising amount of cold threat. Sherlock had never considered Maxim especially dangerous, but was now reassessing._

 _Maxim reached down and picked up one of the heavy wood chisels lying on the floor, flipping it from hand to hand. "I wondered, you see. When I got a message that the tracker on your phone showed you leaving the facility, I knew that one of the two of you had to be an agent of some kind. The only question was which one it was. My bet would have been on Hilaire," he rolled his eyes over at Sherlock, "but his current position makes that unlikely." He noted the surprised look on Deline's face. "What? You thought we would let you keep an internet-enabled phone and not put some sort of spyware on it? Didn't you ever think it odd, when we wouldn't allow Hilaire a phone at all?" he asked incredulously._

 _Deline's face grew red, but she said nothing. Clearly she hadn't thought of that. Sherlock sneered internally but kept quiet._

" _But then, the real problem came before I could send anyone after you," Maxim continued. "Because you had apparently managed to inform Interpol before you left, and they are now stripping my operation to the walls. The only reason I'm not in a holding cell right now is because I had made a trip into town at the right time." He strode over abruptly and backhanded Deline with the hand holding the chisel, and she crumpled to the floor with a cry, blood pouring from her cheekbone. Sherlock watched with increasing concern as Maxim walked over to the pneumatic nailer and picked it up, then flicked on the compressor which supplied it. The machine lurched into life with a loud clatter._

 _As Maxim walked back towards Deline, Sherlock started to struggle, yanking harder and harder on his bindings. Maxim ignored him, gripping Deline once again by the hair and pulling her up to stand against his side. "No," she gasped. "My people will be here in 3 hours. They can help you. Find you another operation. There's no need for this!"_

_Now Sherlock was shouting, pulling as hard as he could and kicking out at the tools littering the floor. Maxim turned to him momentarily. "Shut up! I'm busy," he snapped, and turned back to Deline. "I don't care about another position," he snarled. "My face is now on every police and Interpol computer in Europe. I will be on a plane to Ecuador within two hours." He used Deline's hair to shake her violently. "Fucking Ecuador. Forever. And that's down to you." And he lifted the nailer, pushed it to the side of Deline's chest, and pulled the trigger._

 _Sherlock howled and dislocated his left thumb, managing to yank his left arm free. But then Maxim dropped Deline to the floor and strode over, the nailer still in his grasp. "Oh for fuck's sake," he said. Then he kicked Sherlock solidly in the groin, and while Sherlock was still gagging and gasping for breath, he wrenched his left arm back into place against the oak framing, pushed the nailer against the muscle on the underside of his upper arm, and pulled the trigger again._

 _The pain was beyond anything Sherlock remembered ever feeling. His vision grayed out briefly, and he was aware of making sounds, horrible choking sounds of pain. He came back to himself with Maxim speaking again._

" _Oh, please. I'm not going to kill you. My… I guess you could say my 'investor'… is on his way here—should be here in a couple of hours. He wants you—a good chemist is always useful, and given that you were just dragged along for the ride with Jane Bond over there, there's no reason to expect you can't still be an asset. I can't take you with me now—Ecuador, remember? — but I'm sure he'll have resources available to keep you in reasonable comfort. And he'll pay me very well for having kept you alive." He looked critically over at Sherlock, pinned to the wall like a pale, bleeding butterfly. "The arm will heal up just fine if you get the right care. And we don't have to worry about you making a run for it once I leave."_

 _He dropped the nailer and walked over to turn off the compressor. "Don't want to have to worry about fumes, now do we?" he said mildly. He stood briefly over Deline. "Still breathing. Ah well. Don't expect that'll take long, though."_

 _He walked over, gave Sherlock an oddly polite nod, and strode out the door. It wasn't until he saw it moving, though, that Sherlock realized he was also pulling the door closed as he went. Sherlock's panted "No" was covered by the dull thump of the heavy wooden panel fitting solidly into place, closing him, and Deline, in the small, windowless Cabinet. Breathing became impossible. Sherlock struggled, and gasped, and gasped, and the darkness took him._

 _Sherlock swam back to consciousness, unsure how much time had passed. His head swam, and he bit his lip against the violent pulses of pain coming from his arm. He looked over at it as carefully as he could; the bleeding seemed to have largely stopped, though a substantial stain spread across the floor below. He tried very hard not to look at the closed door. Then he heard it—a soft, soft sound from within the room._

 _It was Deline. Still alive, in agony, and unable to move. He could hear rapid, panting breaths, and then another soft sound, which resolved into "please". He whined and tried to struggle against the rope, but was forced to stop when the pain grabbed him and whited out his vision again. He tried to speak to her, but if she heard him she was beyond understanding. And he struggled again, and his breathing got thinner, and thinner, and faster, and then he was gone again._

 _He came to himself again. This time the sound was gone. He looked over at Deline, and she had rolled over to face him. Her eyes were open. And to avoid those eyes, he looked away, and saw the closed door, and his breathing thinned, and thinned, and…_

 _The third time he woke, the generator had failed, and all light was gone. This time he screamed himself hoarse before the blackness seeped into his head._

 _The fourth time he woke, he managed to avoid opening his eyes. If he didn't see the darkness, if he didn't see the door, he could be calm for a time. And he knew that if he didn't leave this room before Maxim's "sponsor" arrived, he would die. Because based on Mycroft's information, supplied before he went into the fort, Maxim's patron was almost certainly Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right-hand man. And Moran knew exactly what Sherlock looked like._

 _Still keeping his eyes firmly closed, he felt around with his feet for the discarded tools. He felt around with his legs until he encountered the fallen chisel, and used his feet to draw it back up against his hip. Then he braced himself, took a deep breath, positioned his right hand carefully, and dislocated the thumb with a violent jerk against the binding. He breathed through the pain, feeling the echo from his pinned arm at the sudden motion. When he could stand to do so, he pulled his throbbing hand through the now-loosened ropes and laid it against his hip. Before he could think about it too much, then, he pressed it firmly under his hipbone and popped the finger back into joint. He tried to breathe through the resultant nausea, gagging once or twice before getting himself back under control._

 _He sat with his hand loosely in his lap for a bit, letting some of the stiffness from the constrained position bleed off from his upper arm as well. When everything had subsided to a duller throb, he reached around beside his leg for the chisel, and considered how best to use it._

 _He didn't open his eyes. It wouldn't help—the blackness was too complete in the windowless room. And with his eyes closed, he could still pretend that he wasn't enclosed in a small wooden box._

 _Finally, reluctantly, he picked up the chisel, reached across his chest, and felt along his pinioned arm for the embedded nail. He was careful not to move the injured arm at this point, simply using his free arm to get a clear mental picture of the nail and its exact position in his arm. When he was sure, then, without giving himself time to consider it too much, he rotated his body to the side until he was largely facing the framing, his pinned arm screaming from the tension pulling on the nail. He reached up with the chisel, pointing the head towards the wall and placing the sharp face firmly under the head of the nail, standing perhaps a quarter of an inch above the flesh of his arm. And then, with all of his strength, he pushed the chisel violently down and back._

 _He screamed at the pain, and his head swam dangerously. He managed, after a bad moment, not to drop the chisel. When he could move without fainting, then, he carefully set the chisel in his lap, and reached out with shaking fingers to check the position of the nail. He was distantly pleased to see that a half-inch of nail now stood out from his skin._

 _In the end, it took two more tries. By the time the nail finally yanked clear of the framing and his arm dropped to his side he was weeping with pain and dizzy. He allowed himself a brief period to shudder and sob, and then he reached up and pulled the nail from his arm with a great jerk._

 _He came to himself an undetermined time later, lying on his side next to the wall. He had fallen on his uninjured side, luckily, and had remembered not to open his eyes as he awoke. He did a quick self-assessment, feeling the renewed bleeding from his arm soaking across his shirt. No arterial involvement, though, so manageable. He didn't think he could stand, however (even if that had been wise, with eyes closed in the small room). So he shuffled on knees and one arm towards the doorway, his injured arm cradled against his side. He felt along the paneling until he encountered the seam for the door, then patted around for the door handle. His hand closed on it and he yanked the door open, falling across the jamb and partially into the hallway. And then he opened his eyes, and saw the filtered moonlight drifting up from the staircase._

 _It took him almost an hour to get himself ready to leave. Part of that time, of course, was spent lying in the doorway and breathing, trying to convince himself that he could indeed get up. He finally managed it after he remembered that Sebastian Moran was very likely coming within the next hour or so, and meeting him while recumbent in a doorway wasn't an effective strategy. (Though truthfully, meeting Sebastian Moran at all wasn't on his agenda, particularly not with an open, oozing wound through his arm)._

 _He used the door handle as a brace to help him stand, and, after a bad moment when the dizziness was at its worst, quickly felt relatively sure he wouldn't fall again. He then spent fifteen minutes on a scavenger hunt in the dark adjoining rooms, coming up with canvas pieces (once covering windows, apparently), muslin (covering furniture in many of the rooms), a cache of water bottles, a battery-operated lantern and, most valuable of all, a simple medical kit._

 _He had to deal with the arm, obviously, before he could think about trying to drive. He went into the room where they had found the wine earlier—it had a folding table with additional chairs that he used to set out his finds. He placed the lantern on the table, turned it on, and got to work._

 _The kit contained no narcotic painkillers, sadly. He took four anti-inflammatories with water from a bottle opened with his teeth, and placed the bottle aside—that, obviously, had to go with him when he left. He had hoped for some sort of liquid antiseptic for the arm, but found only an antibiotic cream which he was afraid to use on a puncture wound. The kit did, however, contain a few small splints and braces, and he used one to immobilize the still-dislocated thumb on his left hand—the swelling was too great now to allow him to reposition it._

 _He couldn't quite make himself tackle the main wound yet. He busied himself with using the bandage scissors from the kit to craft a sling. It was surprisingly difficult to manage with one hand, especially when the thumb on that hand was also swollen and painful from the earlier dislocation. He had to estimate the required length of fabric and tie it ahead of time—there would be no way to do so once it was around his neck, not with one working arm._

 _Finally, though, he had to address the arm. On reflection, it seemed his best option was to use one of the bottles of water to cleanse as best he could—a newly-opened bottle would be relatively sterile. Then bandage (the kit had plenty of bandages, thankfully) and sling. It was the best he could do, given his current resources._

_He used the bandage scissors to cut the sleeves of his jacket and shirt open (absently grateful that his heavy coat still sat, clean and untouched, in the floor of the Cabinet). He draped a piece of canvas over his lap—his trousers were miraculously free of blood, and he would prefer they stay that way. He carefully peeled the opened sleeves away from the injury, hissing as the dried blood tugged at the wound._

 _It was…well, it was daunting to look at. A perfectly round, purple-red hole oozed a small amount of blood and fluid. Swelling was already well-advanced, his upper arm almost twice its normal size. The swelling closest to the wound was already turning bluish-purple with bruising. He briefly considered using some of the leftover wine as an antiseptic, but wasn't sure he could remain conscious if he poured alcohol in the wound. No, water was better—not as effective, but more bearable._

 _He pulled out a new water bottle, placed it between his teeth and twisted off the cap. He leaned forward, using his uninjured arm to lift the wounded one onto the table, extending his forearm across it. Then he picked up the water bottle, braced himself, and poured._

 _He did not faint. He would not allow it. His vision tunneled, certainly, and his head swam, and his arm felt like he had shoved a hot poker through it. But he managed to sit resolutely in the chair, breath hitching and eyes stinging, until the dizziness passed._

 _He reached into the medical kit and patted the wound with a handful of gauze squares, then repeated the process with another handful when water and thin blood contained to drain. Finally, he anchored a pad of gauze to the back side of the wound with tape, and a second pad to the front, and then wrapped the whole over and over with rolled bandage from armpit to elbow. Then he picked up the prepared sling, put it over his head, and used his right arm to lift the damaged left and slide it into the sling._

 _Next came something else he had consciously been avoiding—returning to the Cabinet. He had to go back—his coat was inside, and (presumably) his wallet, since it was no longer in his pocket. He also needed to see if he could find Deline's wallet—he knew he, himself, only had about €30, and that wouldn't take him as far as he needed to go, much less pay for food or other necessities._

 _Walking was less painful now that his arm was resting in the sling (or maybe the pain tablets had started to work a bit). He struggled a bit at the doorway, but finally managed to enter once he used the lantern to hold the door open against the side wall, so that it couldn't possibly close._

 _Deline still lay in the middle of the floor, eyes open. He forced himself to lean over, checking her coat pockets. He found her mobile, but ignored it—the tracking software made it useless to him anyway. He found her wallet in the other pocket, and shoved it into the pocket of his own trousers without opening it. The car keys were lying on the floor next to the heater; those went into his jacket pocket. Finally he picked up his coat from the floor, and walked back to pick up the lantern._

 _Something made him hesitate. He wasn't sure why, but he found himself picking up one of the large pieces of canvas in the next room. He carried it back into the Cabinet, and draped it over Deline's body. Then he walked over, grabbed the lantern, and pulled the door closed as he left._

 _He walked back into the next room and sat down at the table to think. Before he left, he needed to send some sort of communication to Mycroft. It needed to serve two purposes—first, to warn him that he had a mole; and second, to ask for help. He carefully fished the burner phone out of his pocket and left it on the table while he gathered the other items he was taking—a bottle of water, the medical kit, the tablet bottle, his coat._

 _It came to him, then—one thing he could send that would make it obvious that Sherlock was concerned about the security of their communication, and would also, by implication, make it clear that assistance was needed, and where. He picked up the phone and typed one word, and hit "send"._

 _ **Bees.**_


	11. Know that I have a brother

Notes:

A longish chapter this time-this section just seemed like it needed to be all of a piece.

Note-there is one brief scene where Sherlock's wound is being cared for that's fairly graphic, so you might want to scrolll down a bit if you're squeamish.

Chapter Text

 _Near Troyes, France_

 _The total distance to his destination was 800 kilometers. He knew, though he had never been in this particular location before; his mental map of France was almost as complete as that of London. He had spent every summer here until he was 19, with many a family trip in between. If he simply got in the car and drove straight there, he could arrive in only 8 hours or so._

 _Unfortunately, that was not an option. He had perhaps an hour before Moran arrived, at which point the hunt would begin (though for "Hilaire", thankfully, rather than Sherlock Holmes). In that time, he must drive the car as far as he could, then dispose of it and find alternate transportation. He must also spend time muddying the trail and changing his appearance._

 _He drove first to Troyes, the nearest city of any size. Driving was very difficult, with only one arm and one damaged hand; holding the steering wheel against his swollen right thumb was excruciating, and his control was compromised. He had originally intended to steal a succession of cars, but now rethought that strategy._

 _He waited at the city outskirts until after sunup. Then, as a first step, he drove to the center of town, parked the car in the town square, left the keys in the glovebox and walked away. He played the tourist, wandering around with an admiring look on his face. When he encountered a street market he went in, purchasing food items and an old, heavy coat, two sizes too big. He found a stocking cap and bought that as well. Then he went into the public loo, took off his down coat and left it sitting by the bins, and changed into the "new" one and the hat, putting the food and his other items in the spacious pockets._

 _He had checked Deline's wallet earlier, and found nearly €200 inside. He took this money to the train station and purchased two cheap tickets to Paris. Then he went to the bus station nearby and purchased a ticket to Calais, leaving in an hour's time._ _He argued with himself a bit as to which mode to actually take (the options being intended to confuse any search), and ultimately decided on the bus. The train was more comfortable, but allowed fewer options to leave if necessary—there were only two stops between Troyes and Paris._

 _As it happened, he somewhat regretted his choice. The bus made 9 stops. It was cold, cramped and smelly. In all, it took 9 hours, and he reached Calais at 10 in the evening. He had asked 3 fellow riders about cheap accommodations, but went to none of them. Instead he walked for roughly 45 minutes until he found a youth hostel, at which point he purchased a spot, staggered to the waiting bed, and slept for 10 hours._

 _When he woke, the fever had started._

 _He forced himself to eat some of his sandwich from yesterday. He took more of his pain tablets (he was strenuously not thinking about the pain, which had taken his breath away when he woke) and drank as much of his bottle of water as he could stand. Then he wandered down to the common room to see what transportation came to hand. He knew that getting back on a bus was a bad idea; any determined tail would have found the bus ticket purchase, and would certainly canvas bus and train stations. So perhaps his fellow travelers might be a better resource._

 _He made himself as harmless, small and young as possible, which paid benefits. He introduced himself (still remaining "Hilaire") to an older couple, on a leisurely tour across France. They fell for his tale of being a graduate student on a biking trip. He used his sling as evidence of his "fall"—the result of being clipped by a hit-and-run driver—and claimed that most of his possessions had been stolen while waiting in A+E to see a doctor. He was so convincing he almost believed it himself. The woman, Celine, tutted and fussed like his mother, and her husband Rene tucked him into the rear seat of their car. They drove him all the way to Nantes._

 _It took most of the day—they were in no particular hurry, and stopped several times to sightsee or dine. He slept through all of it, rousing only to sip at water, visit the loo or eat some of the sandwiches and biscuits Celine brought back for him. He took more tablets, and thought the additional rest might help his condition._

 _When they got to Nantes, he discovered he was wrong. Grossly wrong._

 _Rene stopped the car at a charming hostel in the center of Nantes, and purchased spots for all three of them (Sherlock offered to pay and was rebuffed. It was just as well—it would have taken all of his remaining cash). They planned to meet their daughter there the following day._ _When he tried to get out of the car, he was horrified to discover that he could barely stand. His head swam and pounded in harmony with the agony throbbing in his left arm. Rene rushed over and laced his arm around Sherlock's waist, and basically carried him inside to a bed._

 _Celine came and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling his forehead worriedly. "My dear. Can we please call your parents for you? Or have you friends or family nearby? You simply can't continue as you are, and we can't leave you. We have a son about your age, and I would hope any other mother would do the same for him."_

 _He tried to think rapidly, though his head felt filled with syrup. If he could get to Bordeaux, that might be close enough to hitchhike to his destination. So he crafted his lie as carefully as he could under the circumstances. "My parents are out of the country. But my grandmother has a cottage outside of Bordeaux. If I take the bus there, I'm sure she could have someone come get me."_

 _Celine looked over her shoulder at Rene, who hovered by the door. They exchanged a wordless glance, and Celine nodded. "Very well then. We'll take you to Bordeaux, if you're well enough to travel tomorrow. We planned to go visit there at some point anyway, so it's no trouble." She smiled. Sherlock really couldn't tell if it was a lie or not, and in the end it didn't matter—he needed the help, and she wanted to give it._

 _Sherlock slept for a time, then woke to Celine and Rene bustling around his bed. They had brought him dinner—a rich chicken soup, bread and a large bottle of apple juice. He managed, with some difficulty, to sit up long enough to eat perhaps a third of it. Rene then produced a large bottle of co-codamol, which Sherlock thankfully took (a double dose, actually—and much more effective on fever than the anti-inflammatories he had been using). He settled down once more, and quickly tumbled into oblivion._

 _He woke, burning and confused, at 4. He retained just enough sense to know that he had to get the fever down by morning, or Celine and Rene would not take him to Bordeaux (and might insist on taking him to hospital, with disastrous consequences). He took another double dose of co-codamol and drank a quarter of the bottle of juice, and tumbled back into sleep._

 _Rene came in promptly at 7 to wake him, and he was pleased to see the medicine had helped, at least temporarily. The pain was still there, still oppressive, but not the thumping agony it had been at 4. And the fever was down, to the point where Sherlock could at least consider walking. Rene, though, helped him carefully to the loo and waited right outside the door while Sherlock used the toilet and washed his face. He found himself smiling, oddly—it reminded him of John._

 _Over a breakfast of croissants and more juice, Celine and Rene pressed him again about calling his family. Too ill to argue any further, he agreed. He fished the burner phone out of his pocket and pretended to punch in a number. Grandmere, not surprisingly (since she was now almost 10 years gone) did not answer her phone, but Sherlock "left a message" asking her to pick him up at the bus station in Bordeaux. Celine wasn't happy, but it was the best he could do._

 _They were on the road by 10. The trip today was much quicker than the rambling journey to Nantes. Rene took the most direct route, and they made no extraneous stops along the way. They were clearly anxious to give him over to Grandmere's loving care. In a little over 4 hours they were there. Rene parked across the street from the bus station while Sherlock took another dose of co-codamol with the last of the bottle of juice. He knew he was going to have to walk into the bus station under his own power, or Rene and Celine would never leave him. That seemed problematic, as he was aware of the heat burning through his veins, and through his thoughts. Everything seemed a little dreamy and distant; even the ever-present pain in his arm had receded into the background._

 _He suddenly realized that Rene and Celine had both exited the car, and were waiting for him to do the same. He pulled himself as erect in the seat as he could, and fumbled ineffectually at the door latch for a moment before Rene, a concerned look on his face, pulled it open and poked his head inside. "Are you all right?" he said, his brows pulling together. It was clear he thought he knew the answer already._

 _Sherlock nodded (very carefully, since he had discovered that rapid movements of his head made him violently nauseous). He reached out with his good arm, pushed his feet over the sill, grasped the edge of the door, and hauled himself out of the car by main force. That was a success; what was less helpful was the fall to his knees that ensued when he tried to stand on the pavement._ _Celine gave a distressed chirp, and Rene hurried forward to lift him with a strong arm around his waist. He leaned against Rene's side for a moment before managing to pull himself upright, swaying a bit._

" _Oh my dear," Celine began. "We can't leave you like this. We just can't. Please, let us drive you to your grandmere's house. It's not that far out of our way." And in a moment of weakness Sherlock considered it. He knew he was absolutely safe in their care; it was such a novel feeling after the past six months that he found himself reluctant to give it up._

 _But then reason interceded. If he allowed them to do this, he potentially put their lives at risk. He knew he would be pursued; it was an open question as to whether any pursuer would make it this far, given the totally random format of his movement, but he wasn't willing to assume that it couldn't happen. He wasn't going to endanger them._

 _He started to walk slowly towards the bus station, while attempting to smile at Celine. "I'm sure Grandmere will be here to collect me soon enough. It's only about an hour's drive." It was not quite true; in reality, given the small, narrow roads, it was closer to two hours._ _Celine and Rene followed him into the station, still talking. "But if it's that close, all the more reason we could take you."_

 _Sherlock tried to think through the thick clouds currently resting inside his head. "I'll be fine." He thought a bit more. "I can always call my brother if my grandmother is delayed. He doesn't live here, but he would probably know where Grandmere is." He folded himself carefully onto an uncomfortable plastic bench, then made the mistake of trying to lean back. When his arm lightly touched the surface, he let out an involuntary cry and curled into himself, gasping._

 _Celine threw herself onto the bench beside him and patted his back fretfully. "You see? You can't do this." And Sherlock, at that moment, almost agreed with her. No, though—not safe._

" _You know you need to be back in Bordeaux by this evening. I heard Rene say that your daughter was arriving at the hostel at 7," he offered. Celine was conflicted but determined. "Our daughter is 19. She will understand. I can try to call her and let her know we would be late." Rene stood behind her, in an agony of indecision. "Where is your grandmere's house?"_ _Sherlock, brain running slower than ever, answered before he could censor himself. "Near Mimizan." Celine's face fell a little. "That's still 100 kilometers from here, isn't it?" Sherlock didn't dare try to nod right now; the juice and co-codamol were having an uneasy conversation in his stomach as it was. But his silence spoke for itself, apparently._

 _Just as Celine was drawing breath to resume their argument, though, rescue came from a very unexpected source. A woman's voice suddenly floated over from the next bench. "Did you say Mimizan?"_

_Celine and Rene both turned to meet the newcomer. Sherlock raised his head, very carefully, to look as well. Standing at the end of the bench were two nuns, wearing modest dresses and head scarves. The older of the two, the one who had just spoken, reminded Sherlock of Mrs. Hudson: seventy-ish, short and motherly. Her companion presented a complete contrast: tall, taller than Sherlock, in fact. Broad shoulders and rather heavy, though kind, features._

 _The older woman stepped forward. "I'm Sister Clothilde. My friend is Sister Agnes." The younger woman, who Sherlock strongly suspected had started life as Albert rather than Agnes, smiled and ducked her head._ _"We are going to our sister house in Mont-de-Marsan. We can easily take this young man with us; it's not far out of our way, after all," Sister Clothilde said. She beamed at Celine._

 _Celine and Rene looked at each other, looked at Sherlock, still crouched on the bench, looked at the nuns. Finally, "Are you sure?" she asked Sister Clothilde hesitantly. "Of course," said Sister Clothilde. Sister Agnes bobbed her head and smiled as well. Agnes apparently didn't talk much._

 _In the end, it was arranged. Celine and Rene insisted on buying everyone a late lunch, which Sherlock couldn't eat. Rene helped him walk to the toilets (since Sherlock would presumably struggle on his own, and would probably—definitely—be reluctant to ask a nun for help. Sherlock quite liked Rene). Then Celine and Rene walked with the sisters and Sherlock to their tiny, elderly car. Rene stepped forward to help Sherlock inside, but was gently nudged aside by the silent Sister Agnes, who essentially lifted Sherlock into the back seat before blushing and moving back behind Sister Clothilde again._

 _Celine and Rene bid him a fond farewell, Celine leaning into the car to kiss him on the forehead, tutting at his fever. They were turning, preparing to walk away, when Sherlock, driven by an impulse he didn't quite understand, spoke to Celine suddenly. "Can you give me your mobile number? I know my grandmere would want to speak with you, to thank you for all your help." He was never sure if he reacted properly in these circumstances; the social cues were difficult to read when he was at his best, let alone now._

 _But he had evidently chosen correctly, for once. Celine beamed. She dug into her handbag and pulled out a small journal, on which she wrote out their names, address and mobile numbers. "I expect to hear from you. I will worry until I do, Hilaire."_

" _I promise," he murmured, oddly embarrassed. Then they walked away, waving as they went._

 _The drive was physically uncomfortable, but not horrible. The sisters were not bad company; though Sister Agnes spoke rarely, and then only in monosyllables, Sister Clothilde kept up a lively conversation. They turned early to music; their trip to the sister house was for a large meeting of choirs from all over Europe. "Do you sing?" she asked, and without thinking about it, he said "I did."_

 _She beamed, and fiddled with the surprisingly-modern sound system in the dash. Music swelled through the car, and the sisters began to sing. Sister Clothilde had a clear, lyrical soprano that was not yet dimmed by age; Sister Agnes a beautiful, rich contralto. They sang through one piece Sherlock was unfamiliar with, while he simply basked in the sound. And then, after a pause, something old and poignantly familiar began, as the sisters embarked on a Bach motet._

 _He didn't intend to sing. He didn't sing anymore, after all. But perhaps the fever made him forget, or maybe his current feelings of being completely, utterly lost played a part. Whatever the cause, he suddenly found himself humming along to this piece, one that he had sung many times in school. And, once Sister Agnes gave him an encouraging nod, he launched himself head-first into the complex melody, loosing his voice in a way he had forbidden himself to do for many years._

 _The beautiful music wove itself around him. The mathematical perfection of the progression of notes soothed his soul, and the interplay of trained voices was a pleasure he had long believed lost to him._

 _It ended, as all things do. Sister Clothilde reached over and turned off the sound system, and pulled the car over to the side of the road. Then she turned her head to him, with tears in her eyes. "I thank God on my knees for the opportunity to hear that. Where do you sing, child?" He couldn't think of a thing to say, beyond "I don't. Not anymore."_

 _Now Sister Agnes was the one near tears. "But you must," she husked. "Your voice is a gift from God, and in denying yourself you deny Him."_

 _And it was true, in one sense—he was denying himself, and he had never been entirely sure why. But his illness had him off-kilter, and he fell back on an answer he hoped wouldn't prove too offensive. "I'm sorry, Sister, but God and I have not been on speaking terms for some time."_

 _The sisters, thankfully, were not exactly offended; rather, they seemed sad, which he found impossible to understand. Sister Clothilde reached back and patted his shoulder. "I am very sorry to hear that," she said simply. "We will pray for you." Sherlock, completely out of his depth now, paused for a bit too long, and finally nodded. Then he closed his eyes and hoped for sleep._

 _Grandmere's Cottage—near Mimizan, France_

 _Sister Clothilde had insisted on delivering him directly to his door. "You are ill, my boy, and what would your family think if we left you to walk all the way from the village? Anyway, it's only a few miles out of our way." It wasn't true, but Sherlock was too exhausted to argue, and too grateful._

 _He had been somewhat anxious about his first glimpse of the cottage—he hadn't been here in 8 years, and wasn't sure he could handle seeing this place as a dilapidated ruin. Realistically he knew that couldn't be the case; Uncle Rudy had lived here full-time up until 2 years ago, and even now spent every summer. But he wasn't feeling realistic at the moment._

 _This house had always been a refuge, particularly once he reached his teens. When he was 20, he had shown up here, high and incoherent, after a devastating attempted intervention by his family. Grandmere wept, and made him eat, and wept some more, and tucked him into bed with a bin by his side. In the morning he came downstairs, penitent and mildly distraught, to hear her on the phone with his parents. He left without saying goodbye, and didn't return for almost 2 years._

 _He was profoundly reassured as they reached the end of the drive. The house was the same: white-washed stone walls, red shutters and door, rambling gardens on all sides. The bees lived out back—he couldn't see them, but he knew they were there, and well cared for. Rudy loved the bees—not as much as Sherlock did, of course, but he loved the bees._

 _He hauled himself, with some difficulty, out of the tiny car. Sister Agnes watched him carefully, prepared to pounce if he showed weakness. He straightened, and walked carefully to the door, concentrating on each individual step._

 _Mycroft had not changed the access code, thank God. The panel blinked green as the lock opened with a mechanical "thunk", and Sherlock pushed down the handle and stumbled inside. Then he turned back towards the driveway and his benefactors, stood as straight as he could, and gave them a carefree smile and wave. He waited until they had turned and driven away before closing the door and sliding to the stone tiles inside. His last thought was how lovely and cool they felt._

 _Mycroft arrived at his grandmother's house at almost 9 in the evening. He had flown by commercial aircraft on this trip; though he could certainly have accessed his private government jet, he wanted to emphasize to any observers that this was a private trip, just like the other trips he made to this house once or twice a year. Renting a car in Bordeaux had been a novel experience, though—he rarely drove himself these days, even on holiday, since he normally took at least part of his protection detail with him._

 _The current circumstances made that impossible; between the dual problems of his brother and the apparent mole within his command, he felt it best to minimize exposure on this trip. The mole issue would be resolved shortly, most likely within the next 24 hours. It remained to be seen what his brother's situation would require. The raid on the illicit laboratory in Verdun had been a stunning victory, but no trace had been found of either "Hilaire" or his assistant._

 _Mycroft had been profoundly worried by the time he finally received Sherlock's one-word message, at least four hours past the pre-determined response time. The form of the message itself, of course, added to that worry, since it exposed the rot within his own department. The deductions from the message were simple: that Sherlock did not use any of the standard codes, developed in advance, was prima facie evidence that Sherlock knew communications were compromised. The choice of "bees", the meaning of which would be known only to the two of them, also implied that Sherlock needed a refuge, which further implied injury of some sort and a need for assistance, sooner rather than later._

 _He examined the exterior of the house as best he could in the limited light of the moon. It was clear another car had been up the gravel drive in the past day; he couldn't estimate the time or size of vehicle. The house itself seemed undisturbed, the curtains all neatly in place and no lights shining inside. As he stepped onto the porch he observed that the security system was not armed; that really didn't argue for Sherlock's presence one way or the other. Certainly Sherlock knew the code, but so did several other people._

 _He considered drawing the gun holstered unobtrusively under his arm (carried in a diplomatic pouch for the trip), but decided against it. He didn't want to inadvertently shoot his brother (tempting though that was, at times). He walked into the chilly stone entranceway, leaving the door ajar behind him, deciding not to turn on any lights yet. Someone had been here—the braided rug that warmed the stone tiles underfoot had been roughly scuffed to the side._

 _He had just passed the dark open archway to the front parlor when an arm wrapped itself around his neck like a steel band. He reacted without thought, his lifetime of training leading him through instant countermeasures. It was a desperate, silent battle. His opponent was very good, but oddly not as strong as that wiry arm would have led him to suspect. Relatively quickly, he sensed his opening. He swept his legs in between those of his foe to set him off-balance and reached out, searching for an arm or a weapon._

 _His fingers latched onto an arm, wrapped thickly in fabric. Just as he grasped it firmly and started the violent shift that would dislocate said arm, his opponent let out a muffled shriek, and he suddenly felt the man collapse at his feet, motionless. He staggered, both physically and mentally, trying to avoid falling on his recumbent foe. He went swiftly to one knee, placing the other firmly on the back of the man's neck, while reaching up for the light switch just above him on the parlor wall. He felt his breath whistle out, abruptly, when the light revealed the unconscious body of his baby brother._

 _An avalanche of deductions rolled over him in that first panicked glimpse. Sherlock was clad in clothes he had been wearing for at least three days; he had a sparse crop of auburn stubble, and his hair was limp and greasy. Every bit of visible skin was flushed, and his breath was rapid and shallow. And his arm—something was very wrong with his left arm._

 _Mycroft abruptly stood, spun on his heels, and ran out to his car, throwing open the boot. He grabbed a large brown leather case and hurried back inside, dropping it beside his brother and popping the latches to spread it open. Inside was an impressive array of medical goods and equipment, the former contents of one of the standard field medical kits found in each of his normal chauffeured vehicles. When Sherlock's message came, he had suspected this might be needed, but didn't want to alert any watchers by loading a red kit with a medical cross on the side with his normal luggage. He had accomplished the switch by dropping the back seat to access the boot while already in the car with the doors closed, then packing the kit's contents into the extra, empty suitcase brought along with the rest of his luggage._

 _He shrugged off his jacket to free up his arms, and then eased Sherlock fully onto his back, straightening his arms and legs and tucking a throw pillow from the sofa under his head. He did a quick vitals check: heartbeat elevated, breathing still fast and shallow. Then he leaned over to take a very careful look at that worrisome arm._

 _Sherlock had wrapped the arm in a towel at some point, either to cover up its condition or to absorb bleeding. He gently unwrapped that layer, only to encounter a sight that took his breath away. The arm was easily twice its normal size, grossly swollen and hot to the touch. The thumb was obviously dislocated but the swelling was far too extreme to allow it to be reset manually at this point. Mycroft gently palpated the arm to see if he could detect a break, but the swelling made it very difficult to be sure. As he reached the elbow, though, the swelling took on a different feel—heavier, but with an odd "give" to it underneath._

 _He peeled back the jacket and shirt sleeves along the existing slit edges, noting the bandaging that began at the elbow. Reaching into the kit for bandage scissors, he worked the slits all the way up to the shoulder and then cut the sleeves completely off, baring the whole length of the hideously-swollen arm._

 _The bandages wrapped above the elbow were dark with old blood and damp with fluid. A palpable odor of infection was also present. Mycroft was suddenly aware that his own heartrate had increased dramatically. He took a moment to compose himself, and then carefully slid the scissors under the edge of the bandages and cut them loose. And there, before his horrified eyes, was a dark, round hole that appeared to go completely through Sherlock's arm. The area around the red, oozing hole was black, blue and purple; the remainder of the upper arm was swollen, red and shiny, as was most of the arm. He placed his hand carefully on an area of undamaged skin and felt the burning heat radiating from it._

" _Oh, Sherlock," he breathed. "What do we do now?"_

 _He knew this was beyond his own superficial medical knowledge. He also knew that this was severe enough that it could not wait the 24 hours needed before they could safely leave for experienced medical care. Delay could cost Sherlock his arm, if not his life. The only solution, then, would be an alternate access to experienced care, at least in the short run._ _He reached into his pocket for the new "burner" phone he had purchased at the airport in Bordeaux. No one knew the number, not even Anthea, making it virtually impossible that their mole could access it. He dialed a number he had memorized earlier in the year—the physician from the MI6 medical facility that had treated Sherlock during his bout with pneumonia in August._

 _Dr. Rand, sitting in his office at home, recognized both Mycroft's voice and the obvious urgency it contained. He also accepted without question Mycroft's blunt statement that Sherlock could not be moved for 24 hours. He first directed Mycroft to get a temperature reading: 39.8. Obviously not good, but not immediately life-threatening. The second order of business involved moving Sherlock to a working surface; easily solved by dint of picking him up and carrying him to the nearest bedroom. Mycroft quickly stripped off all bedding except the bottom sheet, removed Sherlock's shoes and the remaining pieces of his shirt and jacket. He went into the en suite and returned with a stack of thick towels, one of which he slid carefully under Sherlock's damaged arm._

 _He turned on the overhead light, and removed the shade from the bedside lamp to create as bright a work area as possible. Then he set the phone on the side table, moving the function to "speaker". Dr. Rand's voice rang in the small room._

 _Over the next 20 minutes, he followed the doctor's orders carefully as he washed the arm with a liquid surgical soap, and injected the inner side above Sherlock's elbow with a local anesthetic. He did ask, somewhat hesitantly, if he should give Sherlock a sedative of some type. "No!" said the doctor emphatically. "He's unconscious already, and the last thing we want to do is depress his breathing. The local should prevent any additional pain in the short run. We'll worry about pain management afterward." Mycroft huffed but subsided._

 _Finally, after allowing 5 minutes for the local to take effect, Mycroft reached reluctantly for the scalpel waiting on the towel set out for his materials. He asked the doctor to run through the procedure, and the necessary limitations, once more to have them clear in his mind, and then pressed the scalpel in a line 2 inches along either side of the puncture. He reluctantly pressed deeper, as blood welled up along the line, and then a little deeper yet. And suddenly he reached a reservoir of sorts, and a quantity of old blood and corruption poured out of Sherlock's arm and soaked the towel._

 _Mycroft found himself suppressing a gag. He managed, though, to get himself under control. He put the scalpel thankfully aside, and replaced the befouled towel with a clean one. Then he opened a bottle of liquid antiseptic and poured it into the wound, repeating the process until the fluid running out of the wound was largely clear. He replaced the towel again, and irrigated the wound with normal saline, put yet another towel underneath, and finally put all of his materials aside with a grateful sigh. Then he sat, watching Sherlock breath, until the hands resting in his lap stopped shaking._

 _Once he had packed the wound and bound it loosely with bandages, he pushed a syringe of broad spectrum antibiotics into Sherlock's hip, then covered him lightly with a blanket while bidding Dr. Ryan a good evening, noting that they would be seeing him tomorrow. The doctor reminded him of the requirements for Sherlock's care one more time and hung up._

 _Mycroft now found himself somewhat adrift. He had done everything he could for Sherlock now (Sherlock who, worryingly, had never once stirred). He wandered back out to his car and brought in the rest of his bags, as well as the food he had purchased in the village, and put everything away. He fixed himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, taking them with him back into Sherlock's bedroom. A wave of exhaustion washed over him suddenly; he considered ignoring it, then realized that Sherlock might need additional care soon, and he would be better able to offer it if he were well-rested. So he finished his Spartan meal, scuffed off his shoes, and climbed into the bed beside his brother._

 _He woke abruptly, disoriented and alarmed, unsure what had awakened him. A whimper from a foot away let everything slot into place; Sherlock was awake and in distress. He sat up and laid his palm on Sherlock's hot cheek. "Sherlock? It's me. Do you need something?"_

 _Sherlock jerked and rolled his head over to stare at his brother. "Myc?" he whispered. "Why are you here? Where's Grandmere?" He turned his head back and forth on the pillow. "It hurts, Myc. Why does it hurt?" He whimpered again and moved fitfully, trying to get up. "I have to…it hurts," he moaned._

" _I know, my dear. I'll fix it," Mycroft crooned, as he scrambled out of the bed and headed for the medical kit. He debated calling Dr. Ryan back; he was unsure which to deal with first—Sherlock's pain, or the fever which now had him clearly disoriented. He ultimately decided to address the pain first and was reaching for a syringe when Sherlock suddenly shouted and launched himself from the bed, crashing onto the rug with a cry of pain. "They're here," he whispered hoarsely. "I can hear them. Get Grandmere out, Myc. We have to get her out." He pushed himself up with his good arm, trying to rise._

 _Mycroft recalibrated. Fever first, then. He grabbed the digital thermometer, crouched over Sherlock and pushed it into his ear canal, while Sherlock moaned and flailed feebly with his good arm. He was appalled at the reading: 40.5. That, he knew, was an emergency. He rose quickly, giving Sherlock a reassuring pet across his curls, and hurried into the en suite. He turned the shower on and waited for the water to heat to a lukewarm level, then stripped off his own shirt and trousers quickly. He strode back into the bedroom where Sherlock now lay in a confused huddle, laced his arm around his waist and hauled him up and into the en suite. He swept back the curtain and moved both of them under the water._

 _Sherlock, weak as he was, fought. The water, tepid to Mycroft, no doubt felt like freezing rain to Sherlock. He shrieked, pushed ineffectually against Mycroft's chest, did his best to break free. But then he abruptly went completely limp. Mycroft moved him around until they were chest-to-chest, resting Sherlock's chin on his shoulder and draping Sherlock's good arm over his back, while supporting his weight with an arm around his waist. That weight, he noted, was significantly less than it should be. A discussion for another day._

 _After nearly ten minutes, Sherlock began to shiver. Mycroft assumed that was a sign of a much-needed drop in body temperature. He shut the water off with one hand and swept the curtain aside, then reached out for a bath towel, which he wrapped around his brother's back. He carried him back into the bedroom and laid him on the bed, then returned to the en suite for additional towels to work the worst of the water out of Sherlock's hair. He changed Sherlock's bandages, pleased to see that the seepage from the wound had nearly stopped._

 _He picked up the wet towels and placed them in the corner to be dealt with later, and then checked the drawers of the bureau in the corner. He was delighted to find several pairs of Rudy's pajamas. He pulled out two sets, then stripped Sherlock of his wet trousers and pants and pulled the pajama pants on before putting on the other pair himself. Then he climbed wearily back into the bed and pulled the duvet over both of them. He was asleep in minutes._

 _He awoke well after dawn, thirsty and still tired. He could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock's body; he rested his palm lightly on his brother's forehead. Less intense that last night, thankfully; he would administer another dose of antibiotics shortly and hope for the best._

 _When he wandered back into the bedroom from the loo he was startled to hear a raspy voice from the bed. "Put a shirt on," groaned Sherlock. "I'll go blind." Mycroft felt a broad smile sweep involuntarily across his face._

" _Well, brother mine," he said, walking over to sit on the side of the bed. "This is a tad more drama than I am quite comfortable with." His brother looked at him, making no attempt to move just yet._

" _It was not intentional," he finally muttered._

 _Mycroft suddenly found himself wrong-footed. "I was not serious, Sherlock," he said uncertainly. "I'm by no means blaming you for anything."_

 _Sherlock gave a bitter laugh. "Don't concern yourself. I am quite content to accept it. As John has been known to point out, when something goes tits-up I am generally at least partly to blame." He opened his mouth to continue when he inadvertently rolled onto his bad arm. The resultant choked gasp of agony had his brother shifting immediately off the bed towards the medical kit._

 _He scrabbled around for the morphine tablets and paracetamol for the fever, then hurried into the loo again for a glass of water. He gave the tablets to Sherlock and then supported his head while he took the pills and gulped the entire glass before asking for more._

 _When Sherlock finished, they shared an unpleasant experience of dragging him to the toilet. Mycroft had to take most of his weight, supporting him while wiping a wet flannel over his face, neck and hand. Sherlock sweated and shook through most of it. He insisted on trying to brush his teeth; when he abruptly stopped and gagged, Mycroft took the brush from his hand and hauled him back to bed, then gave him another injection of antibiotics._

 _Mycroft headed into the kitchen to fix breakfast for both of them. When he came back, Sherlock was sound asleep again, his mouth slightly open. Very reluctantly Mycroft patted his cheek until those pale eyes slowly opened. The confusion was back, it seemed, the medication compounding the effects of the fever. "Why… what are we doing?" he said groggily._

 _Mycroft reduced it to its simplest form. "You are very ill," he said. "You need to eat something for me so that you can get better." He was also worried about the effects of the tablets on Sherlock's empty stomach, but kept that to himself._

 _In the end, Mycroft had to feed him. He propped Sherlock up a bit on pillows and spooned scrambled eggs into his mouth, followed by tea which Sherlock drank thirstily. He made a mental note to offer water on a regular basis._

 _After his meal, Sherlock immediately dropped back in to a heavy sleep. Mycroft took the opportunity to clean himself up, and felt much more in control once he was finished. He called Dr. Ryan and gave him an update, then made a very carefully-worded call to Anthea. He was extremely pleased at the result._

 _When Mycroft returned to the bedroom several hours later, Sherlock's lunch in his arms, he was surprised and pleased to see his patient awake and more alert than he had been so far. Before he could speak, Sherlock took the initiative._ _"How long have we been here?" he asked. "I seem to…I can't quite remember you arriving, or how I ended up in bed wearing Rudy's pajamas." He paused a minute, uncertain and clearly worried. "Did we…did I hit you?"_

 _Mycroft snorted, genteelly. "You certainly tried to," he sniffed. He smiled, to make his feelings clear (since Sherlock was very much off-key with his emotions). "When I arrived you were evidently prepared to repel all boarders, so to speak."_

 _Sherlock's eye roll eased his brother's heart a bit. "You do like to milk that pirate story, don't you? And I obviously wasn't very successful in repelling you, after all."_

 _Mycroft smiled again. "You never have been, unless I wished to be repelled." He sat on the edge of the bed and held up the tray. "And now I come bearing gifts, so…" Sherlock smirked, but obediently ate the stew his brother offered. He willingly swallowed his medication as well, which would have been worrisome if it wasn't so necessary._

 _Once the tray was cleared away, Mycroft came back and settled in the chair across from the bed. "Are you up to discussing what will happen now? And perhaps a bit of what occurred after your departure from Verdun?"_

 _Sherlock froze, and Mycroft cringed. Yet another misstep, it seemed. He was out of practice in editing himself for his brother. He readjusted his parameters and continued as if the last few moments had never happened._

" _We will be helicoptered out of here in roughly six hours. You will be meeting up with an old friend, then—I'm afraid your arm will require surgery, so you will be spending time with Dr. Rand once again."_

 _Sherlock edged cautiously back down in the bed before replying. "I assumed something of the kind." He hesitated, then continued in a studiously detached tone. "Will I lose the arm?"_

 _And there it was—that, then, was what had Sherlock wound so tightly, not just his recent experiences. Mycroft put every bit of austere reassurance he could into his voice. "No, of course not. Especially not after my foray into minor surgery earlier." He then proceeded to ignore Sherlock's sudden silence and hitching breaths._

 _To give Sherlock more time to compose himself, he launched into a description of the actions taken after he received Sherlock's one-word message. After a time, he was aware that he once again had his brother's full attention._

" _It made for an interesting few days, certainly," he continued. 'Once I had narrowed the potential mole down to three candidates, I left Anthea in charge of that aspect of the operation, and then moved to plans to come to your aid. Under the circumstances, the medical kit seemed a wise precaution."_

" _But how could you be sure I had made it this far?" Sherlock interjected, his voice hoarse but controlled. "I intended to send another message when I arrived, but by the time I got here I was no longer capable of creating a safe phrase to use."_

" _I did have some confirmation," Mycroft admitted. "I added a monitoring system when Rudy decided to spend most of his time in Paris rather than here. It notified me as soon as you disengaged the lock. At least I hoped it was you; it seemed very unlikely that anyone else would have made the connection to your message, at least not this quickly."_

 _Sherlock nodded, then hesitated before speaking again. "There are…I would like you to do something for me, since I suspect I will be of very little use for the next week or so." He abruptly looked away from his brother again, but kept speaking. "There is an abandoned chateau currently under renovation, about 45 kilometers northeast of Troyes. On the first floor, in a small room, is the body of a young woman. I would appreciate your handling the recovery of her remains. You should be able to establish her real name, though I'm sure she didn't give it to me. Her wallet is somewhere in this house; I had it with me when I arrived, I know."_

 _Mycroft thought very, very carefully before speaking. "Do I need to be concerned about evidence pointing to your involvement in her death?" he said, in a completely neutral tone._

 _Sherlock's head whipped back over, red-rimmed eyes furious. "No! Of course not. I…no." He trailed off, grappled with himself, then spoke again, trying for detachment, and failing. "She was not a good person. I know that. But she didn't deserve what happened to her."_

 _Mycroft added this to the lengthening list of things he needed to ask his brother about, once he recovered. For now, though, he contented himself with a simple reply. "Of course, brother mine. I will see it to as soon as possible."_

 _Sherlock dropped back into a heavy sleep shortly thereafter, and Mycroft busied himself with coordinating the final cleanup of the mole situation, as well as a host of other small issues that needed to be dealt with before he accompanied Sherlock back to Paris for surgery. He checked on his brother several times without waking him over the next few hours, and was disheartened to note that the fever appeared to be rising again. The sooner the helicopter arrived, the better._

 _He fixed himself another sandwich roughly an hour before their transport was due, and went back to the bedroom, intending to wake Sherlock and ask if he felt he could eat. He stopped in the doorway, though, arrested by a small sound filtering into the hall. His chest clenched when he realized it was his brother, and he was weeping, very quietly._

 _Mycroft held a brief, internal battle with himself; he knew that part of Sherlock's emotional upset stemmed from his illness—he was very weak and in pain. And under normal circumstances Sherlock would violently reject any effort at comfort. But, but…_

 _In the end, he followed his instincts, the ones that had led him to a lifetime of caring for his obstreperous younger sibling. He found himself, almost involuntarily, shucking off his shoes and climbing back onto the bed. He carefully scooped Sherlock up against his chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, and began to talk._

" _I would give a great deal to take this from you. You know that, yes?" He waited, and the dark head nodded slightly. "I wish with all my heart that I had followed my instincts, when first I met James Moriarty, and had him killed." Cold comfort, he knew—but very much true._

 _Sherlock had quieted briefly, but now that hopeless weeping had started again, and Mycroft's heart shriveled in his chest. "I want to go home, Myc," came a hitching whisper. "I want to go home."_

 _And Mycroft could do nothing but hold his brother, and wait, bleakly, for the helicopter._

"I spent 2 weeks in hospital," Sherlock said finally, into his knees, picking fretfully at the seams of his dressing gown. "The surgery was of no particular significance, but the infection took quite some time to resolve. Septicemia."

John flinched internally but tried not to react. "That's…that's a very serious infection. You could have died without quick treatment." He reached over and patted Sherlock's shoulder lightly. "Have to thank your brother for that one."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twisted in distaste. "Of course, out of all of this, that's what stuck with you," he sighed.

He was calmer now, able to respond with a small amount of snark, at least. They had had to take a break earlier. The account of the death of Deline had ended with Sherlock sobbing violently into his duvet-covered knees while John crouched beside him, rubbing his back and feeling profoundly useless. It took nearly 10 minutes before he was calm enough to continue.

Now, clearly, he was feeling unsure and a little embarrassed, and John wanted to nip that in the bud. He had made it very clear that he was proud of Sherlock for being willing to talk, and he planned to reinforce that at every opportunity.

Sherlock gave a little jerk as something came to mind. His head came up and he grinned at John. "I just remembered. You may recall that I asked Celine and Rene for their contact information. I'm not honestly sure why—I suppose I thought that they might ultimately need protection, if any pursuers came their way. It made sense at the time," he said with an airy wave of his hand. "But in the end, I made Mycroft write them a message and send them a box of chocolates. And he had to write it in my grandmother's voice. I made him change it twice," he said with a wicked grin. He paused then, and pursued his mouth in displeasure. "Of course he did insist on including a picture of me in hospital, and he made me _smile_."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, the horror…"

"Well, it was pointless," Sherlock sniffed. "I mean, they already knew what I looked like, after all. And what value would they receive from a picture of someone they barely knew in a hospital bed?" And on that, he was genuinely confused. He thought a minute, then looked over at John, eyebrows raised. "Sentiment?"

John smiled. "Sentiment."


	12. Thou hast cheered us this night

Notes:

A shorter chapter this time, to set the tone for this next section. And oh, just a soupcon of Drunk Sherlock.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

John had decided, after the incident with the hidden room and what followed, that setting up a regular schedule of get-togethers was necessary. Nothing that seemed too much like therapy—more the normal interaction between long-time friends, but scheduled enough so that Sherlock couldn't conveniently "forget" about it. So, after a fair amount of prodding, Sherlock agreed that Thursday evenings worked for him.

Sherlock surprised him, when John called to set up the first session, by offering to cook dinner at Baker Street. John's long silence apparently spoke volumes about his reaction. "Really, John. Why do you persist in thinking I'm incapable of the smallest domestic chores?" Sherlock sniffed.

"Fact that you refuse to _do_ any of them might have something to do with it," John drawled.

John could hear Sherlock's grin over the phone. "It's always worked very well to keep me from doing things I don't want to do," he said airily. "That's indifference, not incapacity."

Thursday evening, then, John left directly from the clinic, deciding to take a taxi rather than the Tube since his shoulder was playing up a bit. When they reached Baker Street, though, the cabbie suddenly stopped, well down the road from 221B. John looked up the street and saw flashing lights and a fire engine and immediately thought of Sherlock. He threw money at the cabbie and jumped out, hustling up the street while trying to call Sherlock at the same time.

Threading his way rapidly around emergency vehicles and firemen, John slowed suddenly at the scene in front of the flat. Tendrils of smoke wafted gently out of the doorway, though not enough to make John fear the building was on fire. Sherlock sat on the steps, blanket around his shoulders and an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Mrs. Hudson stood over him, giving him what was clearly a thundering scold while Sherlock stared glumly at the pavement and coughed periodically. As John stepped into hearing range, Sherlock apparently disagreed with something Mrs. Hudson said, raised his head and spoke to her. John didn't hear what he said, but clearly heard Mrs. Hudson respond, "You were _unconscious_ , Sherlock!"

Something in Sherlock's face, though, softened her anger, and she reached out and ran her fingers fondly through his hair. Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned his head and shoulders against her legs. John managed to catch Mrs. Hudson's eye, shook his head before she could speak, and gestured over to the paramedics—he wanted to get the whole story before hearing Sherlock's version.

Five minutes later, John walked back over and stood in front of Sherlock, who opened his eyes and started to take off the oxygen mask. "Nope," said John. "Leave it on for the next ten minutes, or make a trip to hospital. Those are your options." Sherlock curled his lip but left the mask in place. John settled on the steps next to him as Mrs. Hudson moved over to thank the firemen.

"Set the oven on fire, tried to put it out yourself, then collapsed from smoke inhalation. Did I miss anything?" John said mildly.

Sherlock bristled and pulled the mask away just enough to speak. "I did not _collapse_." "Unconscious, Sherlock!" snapped Mrs. Hudson over her shoulder. Sherlock glared at her back but subsided. He coughed again, wetly.

"Apparently a recent history of repeated bouts of pneumonia has left my lung capacity somewhat compromised," he said finally. "I didn't realize the problem until I fell and couldn't get up."

John silently thanked God that Mrs. Hudson had been home (and was strong enough to drag Sherlock out of the kitchen, apparently), and made a mental note to follow up on that 'recent history' comment later. "Damage to anything but the oven and your pride?" he asked, and Sherlock, reluctantly, told him the whole story, scowling at John's reaction. And John realized that Mary _had_ to hear this one.

Fifteen minutes later he and Sherlock were in a cab, heading to John and Mary's house. The fare would be horrific, but Sherlock insisted on paying (and clearly couldn't handle the Tube at the moment anyway). John had called Mary and told her the basics, asked her to order pizza, and let her know that an entertaining story was coming her way, while Sherlock glowered at him from across the taxi.

Halfway there, John's mental note popped into his head again. "'Recent history of repeated bouts of pneumonia'—how many, then? You told me about Hungary, and you were very ill here the spring before you… left. So twice in three years?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, four times, actually. London and Hungary, yes. But also France—I had to sleep rough for several weeks, got ill but could do nothing about it for too long. Spent two weeks in an MI6 hospital outside Paris. And then Russia—I escaped from a group of Chechens who had kept me confined in an outdoor shed for three days in early April. Too cold, too damp, no food. I had to leave on foot, and traveled nearly twenty miles before I could go no further. It's how I met Pasha, in fact—he found me lying in the middle of the road. Put me in his truck and took me home, like a stray puppy." His face slid into sadness momentarily. Then he coughed heavily, closed his eyes and leaned back into the corner of the cab, clearly done talking for now.

Once again, John felt that queasy awareness of just how much Sherlock hadn't said about his time away. He, too, fell silent for the remainder of the trip, but it wasn't a completely comfortable silence. Too many secrets still.

Mary, wisely, made no attempt to coddle Sherlock when they arrived, but she didn't really tease him either. John was once again impressed with how well she dealt with Sherlock's often fragile ego. "Come on in, then," she said, lacing her arm through Sherlock's. "Why don't you go get a quick shower before the pizza comes? You smell a bit like burnt toast." Sherlock gave a nod and headed down the hall to the bath, while John fished out the pair of sweats he kept around for just this kind of occasion and set them on the toilet lid.

The pizza came just as Sherlock wandered back into the kitchen, looking ridiculously young in the rumpled sweats, damp curls flopping on his forehead. Mary grinned. "Excellent timing. You two set the table, please. Oh, Sherlock, I ordered a plain cheese one for you." Sherlock gave her a pleased smile. John often told him his eating habits were like a toddler's—he was absurdly sensitive to textures, and would invariably pick everything off his pizza. Vegetables, including mushrooms and onions, were "slimy", and meats were "too chewy". John had tried to broaden Sherlock's horizons by continuing to order pizza with different toppings, but Mary took the path of least resistance.

John waited until they were all comfortably full, even Sherlock (who surprised him by actually eating three full slices without complaint). Then he shoved his chair back, stretched, and pounced. "So. Ready to tell Mary all about your culinary exploits?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but was clearly resigned to it. Mary folded her hands in her lap and smiled encouragingly. "Oh, very well. Mrs. Hudson will surely tell you, even if I don't. I still say, though, that it was a good idea at its core," Sherlock sniffed.

"Good ideas don't usually lead to firemen and evacuated flats, Sherlock," Mary said mildly, a wicked grin on her lips.

"All right, _fine_. The execution left something to be desired. I was distracted at a critical moment."

"And what exactly were you distracted from?" Mary prodded.

"The chicken. I was trying a new idea for chicken. I had eaten it accidentally earlier in the week and found it quite tasty, so I thought I could replicate it in the kitchen."

Mary blinked. "How does one eat something _accidentally_ , exactly?"

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't _eat it_ accidentally. It was _prepared_ that way accidentally."

John smirked. "This is the good part," he told Mary. Sherlock expanded the frown to include him as well.

"Yes, John, just as amusing as the first three times you questioned me about it," Sherlock muttered. John continued to grin. Mary flapped her hands in a "get on with it" fashion. "I could tell this more quickly if I were not continually _interrupted_ ," Sherlock said haughtily. John and Mary both made zipping motions across their mouths.

"Yes. Well. Earlier this week I stopped briefly and purchased lunch, but Lestrade texted me before I had a chance to eat it. It was sautéed chicken, and, in keeping with John's constant nagging about my eating habits," he shot a sardonic look at John, who nodded approvingly, "I decided to take it with me rather than leave it. I happened to have a paper napkin in my pocket from that morning that I had carried one of Mrs. Hudson's honey pastries in, so I wrapped it up in that and put it back in my pocket." Sherlock paused and waited for comments, then continued.

"Several hours later I remembered the chicken was still in my pocket. I took it out, took a bite, and realized that the honey had permeated the breading on the chicken. It was very good. I ate all of it. And when John mentioned having dinner this evening, I thought I might try to recreate that. It didn't seem that it would be difficult—cover the chicken in bread crumbs, sauté it, and then coat in it in honey. I wasn't sure how to effectively accomplish the last bit, so I asked Mrs. Hudson. She suggested covering the cooked chicken with honey and then putting it briefly under the broiler. So that's the approach I took. But I apparently miscalculated ingredients or timing in some fashion, and then the oven caught fire while I was out of the room." He looked at John and Mary challengingly, daring them to find any of this unreasonable.

John grinned, looked over at Mary (who was a bit mystified), then said, "Sherlock. Tell Mary exactly _how_ you coated the chicken with the honey."

Sherlock frowned again. "I already _told_ you. The chicken was wrapped in the napkin with the honey and it permeated the breading."

Mary blinked, while John waited, waited…

"Sherlock," she said slowly. "You put the honey on the same way, then?" Sherlock nodded. Was everyone dim this evening?

"So… you wrapped the chicken in…paper napkins with honey on them?" Sherlock nodded again. Mary was clearly struggling with herself, and John's eyes were glowing with mirth.

"And then. The broiler. You put it under the broiler." She was now laughing openly, as John giggled beside her. "The broiler. Which is an _open flame_. On _paper napkins_!" And they howled, and Mary cackled until tears ran down her cheeks, and Sherlock's pale skin flamed into a full-on blush from his collarbones to his hairline. "Yes, right," he grumbled. "I told you I was distracted. Very droll. Glad to provide the evening's entertainment. The least you can do is serve the pudding now."

After dinner, John went into his study to clean up some complicated NHS paperwork he'd been putting off for far too long, and Mary took Sherlock into the lounge with an eye to finding a movie for Sherlock to criticize. John heard Sherlock's deep voice howling in outrage once or twice and Mary's giggle, and was struck by how home-like this all felt—and how much difference a couple of months had made.

He ended up working far longer than he intended, and came wandering back to the lounge long after the movie had ended, half expecting Mary, at least, to have gone off to bed. He was surprised to see both Sherlock and Mary sitting on the sofa, glasses in their hands. He was even more surprised when Sherlock saw him, blinked, and chirped "Hi!" in an enthusiastic voice, a lopsided grin on his face.

John stopped, looked at Sherlock again, closely, then looked over at Mary. "He's _pissed_."

Sherlock nodded happily. "Yup," he agreed, bobbing his head up and down.

John looked back to Mary. "And why is he pissed? Or more accurately, _how_? He doesn't really drink."

Mary shrugged. "I don't claim to understand it. He asked about the bottle of brandy—you know, the one Mycroft gave you for Christmas." Sherlock beamed and nodded again. "So I opened it—he says it's _very_ expensive, and I've never tasted very expensive brandy before, at least not 800-quid-a-bottle brandy. We each had two glasses, although his were bigger glasses than mine. And the first thing I know, he's, well, like _this_." She pointed at Sherlock, who continued to smile blearily from the end of the sofa.

John sighed. "It's very simple. The reason he doesn't drink is because he has the capacity of a nine-year-old girl." Sherlock bobbed his head some more, though he clearly wasn't quite sure what he was agreeing with.

Mary grinned. "He's really adorable like this, you know." Sherlock frowned a bit, then forgot why and returned to his cheerful mien. "Maybe we should keep some brandy on hand all the time."

John shook his head. "Nope. This is just the first part. It gets less attractive." Mary looked up inquiringly.

"I've seen him drunk now three, no, four times since I've known him, all for cases, when he couldn't avoid drinking," he continued. "He follows a very set pattern. First hour or so, he's like this: happy as a lark. Then he suddenly turns green and vomits up his toenails for half an hour." Mary flinched. "And then finally he passes out, and I have to carry him to bed." Mary reached over wordlessly and took Sherlock's glass away. Sherlock sighed resignedly but didn't protest.

John was reaching for Mary's hand, preparing to chivvy everyone off to bed, when Sherlock suddenly sat up straight and said, "It wasn't all bad, you know." He looked at them earnestly, while John stopped trying to pull Mary off the couch and settled carefully into a chair. "Um… what wasn't, Sherlock?" John said gently, though he suspected he already knew.

Sherlock blinked, obviously struggling a bit to work through an actual question. "When I was away. It wasn't…" He abruptly hauled himself off the couch, lurching precariously to his feet and staggering down the hall. Just as John was about to set off in pursuit, he was back, wallet in his hands. He dug in the side pocket, fumbling a bit, and then gave a small sound of triumph as he produced a creased photograph and held it out.

John saw two men in the picture. One was a shortish, very muscular older man with a barrel chest and a shock of spiky grey hair, and the other was clearly an oddly-dressed Sherlock, whippet-thin, scowling and ferociously sunburnt. John took it, looked, looked again, and held it out to Mary, whose forehead creased in concentration. "Sherlock," she began, "are those really, erm, on your head, are those…"

"Pig intestines. And other bits," he nodded, with what appeared to be delight. He looked over at John, who was still struggling with the idea of a picture of, well, _that_. "Did I tell you the story of the pig? I don't think I did but my memory doesn't seem to be at home right now," Sherlock continued, a brief bit of concern rolling across his face before the sunny smile returned.

John and Mary shook their heads in unison.

"Very well, then. I shall tell you the story of the Pig, the Monk, and the Donkey," he said grandly, and thumped himself back down on the couch.

Notes:

The whole "setting the oven on fire with chicken in paper napkins" thing? I didn't make that up. That is something a college neighbor of mine ACTUALLY DID. And-wait for it-he was majoring in Aerospace Engineering. An honest-to-God rocket scientist, friends and neighbors.


	13. That friend in heart enfold

_If Pasha mentioned the fucking sunshine one more time, Sherlock was going to take off his last pair of 500-quid shoes and beat him to death with them. The ones he bought in France with money stolen from Moriarty. He hated to get blood on those shoes, but needs must._

 _To begin with, nothing had led Sherlock to believe that a Russian summer was going to be much different than a London one—some very warm days, a few rare hot ones, frequent pissing rain. Nothing like this._ _Pasha had told him once, on a frigid April evening, that southernmost Russia actually had 5 distinct seasons. What he had not mentioned, however, was that the fifth season, beginning in mid-July, was (not so) fondly known as Surface of the Sun. It was sticky, searingly hot and breathless—and Pasha loved every bloody second of it. Loudly. Repeatedly._

 _Pasha was currently sitting shirtless in their elderly truck, sweat trickling gently through his dense mat of grey chest hair. He alternated between beaming out the window and singing along with the nasal, incomprehensible Chechen pop music blasting out of the radio. And every 5 minutes, just like clockwork, he'd turn that gleaming smile Sherlock's way and remark, once again, on how BEAUTIFUL the sunshine was._

 _Sherlock was long past telling him to shut up. Hadn't worked any of the 8 times he'd tried, in six different languages. Now he just endured, draped wiltingly across the cracked vinyl seat while the little moisture remaining in his system seeped from every pore. Sherlock had learned in childhood, painfully, that (1) he would never, under any circumstances, tan; and (2) he was quite capable of getting a second-degree sunburn on a cool, partly-cloudy day. The current conditions, then, called for drastic measures—sunscreen, when he could get it; long sleeves, no matter how hot it was; and of course Pasha's particular favorite, the bloody straw hat._

_The locals thought he was demented. Sherlock knew he was, but not because of his clothing. He was demented because he was currently sitting in this fucking truck, in his fucking dress shirt and crazy-Englishman hat, dying of incipient heatstroke while on his way to pick up a pig. Correction—to probably steal a pig. Ownership, to Pasha, was a flexible term._

 _Case in point: the ancient refrigerated truck they were currently barreling along rutted dirt roads in. Despite the truck being older than Sherlock, it was nonetheless a fairly valuable commodity in this remote region. Pasha had become decidedly shifty when Sherlock asked him where it came from. "It doesn't really matter, William" (pronounced, as usual, 'Villyam'). "It will be back where it came from before it's missed."_

 _Sherlock had learned the hard way to take nothing for granted in these circumstances. "Missed by whom?" he said warily. Pasha pretended great interest in the weedy cows off in the distance. He muttered something indistinct._

" _Pardon?" Sherlock said politely, becoming increasingly suspicious._

 _Pasha gave a great, put-upon sigh. "If you don't want to know, don't ask."_

 _The hair on Sherlock's neck rose. "Why would I not want to know, Pasha?"_

 _Pasha turned a rueful grin on him. 'Because then you don't have to lie if Borodin asks you about it._

_Sherlock didn't choke, but it was a near thing. "Good Christ! You stole a truck from the Mafiya?"_

" _Borrowed, Villyam. Borrowed. No one sane steals from the Mafiya. But that also makes it much less likely that they would expect anything to go missing, doesn't it?" Pasha smiled benignly, as if all were now explained._

 _There was so much wrong with that statement, it was difficult to know where to start. "It also makes it more likely that, when something does go missing, they will kill whoever made that happen. Painfully. At length." Borodin had a reputation for imaginative brutality and a wide reach. Sherlock really didn't want to die painfully over a pig, although there was a certain element of amusement in imagining Mycroft's reaction to that kind of news._

 _Pasha made a rude noise. "Pish. Borodin will be busy with other issues. I may have let it slip to Kaminsky that Borodin's opium run was going a different route this month._

_Sherlock gasped like a landed fish. That was brilliant, in a heinous kind of way. "You started a turf war. Over a pig."_

 _Pasha grinned. "Only a little war. And if the big dogs fight the other big dogs, perhaps we little dogs can nick the rest of the kibble while they're occupied. The pig is just an added bonus." He was extremely pleased with himself._

 _Sherlock decided to ignore him for a bit as punishment. He picked up an old newspaper and tried fanning himself, but only succeeding in moving more hot air through the cab. He dropped the paper and slid back into a full sulk._

 _Sulking, though, lost its appeal when no one remarked on it or tried to coax him out of it. Pasha, the parent of three grown children, was far more experienced in dealing with adolescent behavior than John Watson. He simply continued to gaze happily out at the sunshine. It was hateful._

_Sherlock, predictably, cracked first. "So why are we stealing a pig, again?"_

_Pasha gave him a disapproving look. "I told you this, Villyam. Twice." Sherlock raised his hand, preparatory to giving a dismissive wave along with a dismissive statement, but Pasha cut him off. "And don't tell me you 'deleted' it. That's a load of balls and you know it." Sherlock's mouth closed with a snap._

_Pasha was now genuinely irritated. "I told you, you didn't have to come. I told you I would do this, for my daughter. My only remaining daughter, who is getting married in three days and didn't even tell me. The least I can do is supply the meat for the wedding feast. But if you didn't want to come you should have said so and I would have done this on my own. Or asked Kolya to help."_

 _Sherlock, to his annoyance, felt his cheeks flush. "And of course, Kolya would drive 400 miles to come help you steal a pig. Because that's the kind of giving soul he is."_

 _And oh, he regretted saying that, but as usual when his temper was involved, he found himself pinpointing the one thing most likely to alienate his audience. And the one thing he would bitterly reproach himself for later, when it involved the few people he actually cared about._

 _But Pasha surprised him, as he so often did. He laughed, ruefully. "Well, perhaps not Kolya. Not without arranging it a year ahead of time and throwing in a monetary bonus and a prostitute."_

 _Sherlock, though, had learned a thing or two in the past year. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."_

 _Pasha nodded. "No, you shouldn't." He turned a wry, sideways grin on Sherlock. "But that doesn't make it any less true."_

 _They sat in companionable silence for a bit. Pasha looked admiringly out the window and turned to once again remark on the sunshine but, on seeing Sherlock's flushed, sweaty face, relented._

 _Sherlock noticed. "Yes, I know. Beautiful," he muttered. Pasha beamed._

" _So tell me. Where, exactly, are we going to steal this Godforsaken pig?" This, at least, was a safe topic. Pasha had been very cagey about his source. Given the provenance of the truck, it was probably better that Sherlock know the full scope of this potential debacle now._

 _Pasha snorted. "That's funnier than you realize. Have you heard of the Monk?"_

 _Sherlock blinked. "Monk, as in rosary beads, chanting, flagellation? That kind of monk?"_

_Pasha nodded. "Basically. Probably not the holiest of monks, mind you. And I'm not even sure he's ordained, technically speaking. 'The Monk' is the name he goes by. He certainly looks the part—long wool robes, funny hat, poor bathing habits. He lives in a nasty hut, far out in the woods, and grows everything he needs, including pigs and chickens. But he also, from what I am told, used to have a different profession," Pasha waggled his eyebrows, "and so I think perhaps God wouldn't mind if he paid a little additional penance now, to atone for past sins."_

" _And you're going to take care of that, on God's behalf?" Sherlock asked primly._

" _Oh no, my dear—I wouldn't presume to guess the mind of God. But I am fairly sure that God will not be offended if I take the initiative and test the faith of one of His chosen a bit. Suffering improves the soul, or so I'm told."_

 _Sherlock thought idly that if that were true, his own soul, if indeed such a thing existed, must be much improved from a year ago. Then cringed, silently. Sentiment again. This was embarrassing._

 _And of course Pasha, the perceptive bastard, noticed the sudden silence. He gave Sherlock a quick glance and Sherlock could see, clearly see, him decide not to comment. Christ. When did he become a teenaged girl, and when did Pasha decide he needed coddling?_

 _Enough. "So we're going to rob this Monk, presumably at gunpoint, and hope that he won't tell anyone?"_

 _Pasha accepted the offering for what it was. Moving well away from the doldrums of Feelings, then. "I am shocked that you would even think I would use force on a priest." He widened his eyes at Sherlock, though the smirk took something away from the effect. "How will he tell anyone when he won't know that we are ever there? We will wait very late. And I am told he makes regular market trips to Kursk every Thursday, and does not come back until the following evening. And today is Thursday."_

 _Sherlock huffed. "Then why wait until very late? I don't much fancy prancing through a pigsty in the dark." Well, didn't much fancy pigsties at all, truthfully, but that was beside the point._

" _Because while there are few neighbors, the ones that are there have very little to occupy themselves, and are going to remember a refrigerated truck passing. That's an interesting event in the country, you know." Pasha had, at some point, developed the typical city-dweller's contempt for country life, even though he himself came from a village he often described as a beer smudge on the map. "Besides, you're not the one who's going to get the pig out. Pretty little city boy like you? Pigs can smell fear, you know."_

_Sherlock sniffed. "You say that like I'm going to argue with you. I'm not especially interested in impressing swine, thank you." He dropped his chin and grinned up at Pasha through his lashes. "Nor the pig, either."_

 _Pasha snorted with laughter. "Prick," he said fondly._

 _Sherlock never realized, until he came to Russia, what true darkness looked like. He wasn't always a city boy, after all—he spent his formative years (when not away at school) in the wilds of Surrey, rambling through woods at will. But there were always other houses within a mile or so, enough to give at least a dim light on even the darkest nights._

 _This, though—this darkness had teeth. It was easy to see, now, why so many fairy tales envisioned horrors in the dark._

" _The least you could have done was to pick a night with a full moon," Sherlock muttered, in a tone just this side of a whine. "We're going to break our legs traipsing around in the woods in this."_

 _Pasha gave a long-suffering sigh. "The idea, Villyam, is not to be seen, remember? If we can see, so can anyone else who might be around. And anyway, that's why I brought the torches."_

" _The torches that you won't let us use," Sherlock snapped. "And I'm not sure why we couldn't just park the truck and come up to the house at twilight, and wait there for full dark."_

" _Because we don't want to take a chance on the Monk leaving later than expected for Kursk. Stealth, not force, remember?" Pasha paused to grip Sherlock's forearm as he stumbled yet again. "And stop rolling your eyes. I can't see it but I know you're doing it, and you can't see where you're going when you do it."_

" _I can't see where I'm going anyway," Sherlock snarled. "Oh, bugger!" He tripped yet again, and fell across knobbly tree roots and spiky pine needles that impaled his palms._

 _Pasha hauled him to his feet for the third time, and handed him a torch with an exasperated huff. "All right. You can turn it on now, I suppose."_

 _Sherlock took it with poor grace. "I hate the country," he said sullenly._

 _His mood did improve a bit now that he wasn't stumbling around anymore. This began to seem more like an adventure, and less like a penance._

 _They came upon the Monk's hovel abruptly, the thick woods giving way to a small, weedy clearing with a grim peasant cabin in the middle, surrounded by ramshackle outbuildings and a vegetable patch. A generator clattered loudly, providing lights for the cabin and the barn lot._

 _Pasha moved smoothly around the cabin towards the far side of the barn and chicken coop. A pungent odor of manure led them quickly to their target. As they came up to the pigsty, Sherlock found his hand involuntarily sliding up to cover his nose and mouth. The smell was appalling. "My God. And people actually live next to this?" he gasped._

_Pasha snorted. "You city boys are all alike. So delicate." Sherlock noticed, though, that he appeared to be breathing through his mouth._

 _They were suddenly interrupted by an explosive porcine squeal, followed by a cracking impact of 25 stone of enraged pork charging the timber fence around the sty. Pasha leapt backwards and fell on his arse; Sherlock damn near achieved levitation, abruptly finding himself twenty feet away and twitching. "What the hell was that?" he gasped, before he could get a tether on his mouth._

_Pasha gave a hysterical titter. "It's a pig, idiot. What else do you find in a pigsty?"_

 _Sherlock, waiting for his heartrate to come back down out of rabbit mode, shot a mistrustful glare at the mass of muscle and lard grunting against the fence. "It's five feet long! That's not a pig, it's a horse with short legs." He noted the small angry eyes following their every move. "And it doesn't like us."_

 _Pasha climbed to his feet, dusting the seat of his trousers. "It's a boar. They don't often like anyone." He took a closer look. "And we're in luck—it's less than half-grown. They can weigh up to half a ton, you know."_

 _Sherlock's brain had come back online. "And you thought the two of us could get a thousand-pound animal in the truck how, exactly?"_

 _Pasha looked slightly abashed. "I thought we could lead it up the ramp and then slaughter it in the truck." He looked again at the pig, swinish fury radiating from its every pore. "I really thought there would be females. They're, well, friendlier."_

 _Sherlock stared. An awful certainty dawned. "You've never handled pigs in your life, have you?"_

 _Pasha flinched. "Well, not as such."_

 _Sherlock waited in stony silence._

 _Pasha sighed. "All right. I used to feed the neighbors' pigs sometimes when I was a child. And no, before you ask, I never took one of them out of the pen." He rallied a bit. "I do know, though, that they often led the pigs around on a line. Took them out into the forest to graze on nuts, that kind of thing."_

 _Sherlock looked doubtfully at the seething mass of flesh behind the fence. "I can't see us taking that out for a stroll, Pasha. If nothing else, it weighs more than the two of us put together."_

 _Pasha was nothing if not resourceful, though. He reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a large packet of mints. "They like sweets," he said, and edged carefully over to the fence, wary of the enraged panting of the boar. He pulled out a mint and tossed it gingerly over the fence. The pig followed the flight of the little disc, apparently nonplussed at this peculiar action, and then edged over to snuffle at the offering._

 _There was a sudden snap of jaws, a miniscule crunching noise, and the boar gave a pleased grunt and scuttled back over to the fence, clearly looking for more. Sherlock could smell a waft of wintergreen from its breath despite the miasma floating about the sty. Pasha beamed and threw another mint. Without turning his head from the pig, he spoke out of the side of his mouth. "Go in the barn. Find some rope."_

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I doubt he understands Russian, you know."_

 _Pasha kept continuous eye contact with the boar. "I'm not taking any chances. Pigs are smarter than dogs, you know."_

 _Sherlock snorted. "If it's smart enough to figure out your plan, Pasha, we have bigger problems." But he wandered over to the barn nonetheless, flicking his torch on when he realized the decrepit building had no electricity._

 _The barn smelled of old hay and mildew—clearly it wasn't used for animals anymore, so finding any useable tack was unlikely. Sherlock poked around in the corners in a desultory fashion—this whole proceeding was becoming less amusing by the minute, and his shoes were going to be ruined. Finally, though, he found a length of relatively sturdy rope looped over an abandoned stall and headed back outside._

 _Pasha was now attempting to bond with the pig. The pig appeared much more interested in securing the rest of the mints and ignored Pasha's offered fingers._

 _Sherlock dredged up half-deleted information abruptly. "Pasha? Pigs bite. And the males have tusks in their bottom jaws." Pasha yanked the fingers back, but then slowly held them out again._

" _No, he won't. He likes me, you see?" He gave a fond look at the behemoth in the sty. The pig continued to ignore the outstretched fingers once the lack of mints was established._

" _Let me have the rope. You toss out another mint, right there in front." Sherlock handed the rope over and took the packet of mints, then tossed one in front of the boar. The boar immediately dropped its snout to snuffle up the treat, and Pasha leaned over the fence and quickly looped the rope around its neck. The animal tossed its head roughly as both Pasha and Sherlock jerked backwards reflexively. Thankfully Pasha didn't drop the rope. Sherlock, without any specific instructions to go by, tossed another mint, and the pig glared for a moment before dipping its head once more._

 _Pasha flashed a manic grin at Sherlock. "See there? Easy as can be."_

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Yes, indeed. You have now roped an animal that outweighs you by at least 250 pounds. An animal which bites and has tusks. And which you now propose to somehow lead more than a mile through dark, thick forest to the truck. How many mints do you have, exactly?"_

 _Pasha's face fell. "You always have to spoil things." He thought for a moment, and his expression cleared. "I know. You can go get the truck and bring it here." Sherlock glared, and he corrected himself. "All right, I can go get the truck and bring it here. Then all we have to do is lead it up the ramp." He held out the loop of rope. "Just don't let go of this. I'll be right back." He trotted off to the edge of the forest, switching his torch back on. Sherlock sighed and held onto the rope._

 _The boar grew increasingly restive, obviously aware of the rope around its neck. Sherlock glumly threw over mints, which were grudgingly accepted, but the giant pig's tiny, mean eyes left him with no illusions about how the animal felt about the rope, and presumably about him. He wondered if there was any way this would end well; probably not, but Pasha would require proof, which would almost certainly end in pain for somebody. He sighed gustily and threw another mint._

 _It seemed to take hours, but it was in reality only about 20 minutes before Sherlock heard the rumble of the truck coming up the track from the main road._

 _The pig's head snapped up alertly, almost yanking the rope from his hands. It watched warily as Pasha drove the truck over to the edge of the underbrush next to the pigsty and parked. Pasha hopped out and trotted back to open the back doors of the refrigerated compartment, sending a breath of chilled air towards Sherlock and the pig. He reached under the tailgate and slid the metal ramp out, then hooked it in place._

 _Pasha grinned and dusted off his hands theatrically. "There. Wasn't that simple? Now we just lead him up the ramp and we're off."_

 _Sherlock doubted it, really he did, but resisted the urge to say so. "So what now?" he asked, rope in one hand and mints in the other._

 _Pasha strode over to the sty. "OK. I put the mints in a line up the ramp, and then open the gate. All you have to do is hold onto the rope until I can get back to help you. When he gets up into the truck, I'll shoot him." He fished his pistol out of the back of his shorts, and looked at Sherlock expectantly._

 _Sherlock, in a moment of cosmic irony, found himself playing the role of the Voice of Reason. "And if he decides to run, while dragging the two of us along like an anchor?" he inquired dryly._

 _Pasha snorted. "I'm a good shot." He gave the pig an (unrealistically) fond look. "But I don't expect a bit of trouble." He shoved the pistol back into his waistband._

 _Sherlock hated it, but he actually heard what was presumably his conscience, poor, neglected thing that it was. He sighed. "Pasha? You should hold the rope, and I'll shoot the damn thing. You outweigh me by at least 40 pounds so you have a chance of slowing it down if it decides to run."_

 _Pasha shook his head. "I'll do any slaughtering that needs to be done. You think I forgot about the chickens? I'm the one who held your head, remember?"_

 _Sherlock stiffened. "It was food poisoning."_

 _Pasha looked him in the eye. "Villyam. I saw your face when you wrung the necks. You should have told me you had never done such a thing before."_

 _Sherlock couldn't restrain his shudder as he recalled the crunch of the tiny bones under his fingers, followed by the horrible stillness of the birds. Pasha, of course, noticed, and nodded. "Yes, exactly."_

 _Sherlock chose to let it go without further comment._

 _Pasha moved back over to the truck and opened up a tarp that sat next to the open door, spreading it across the truck bed. "No reason to make cleaning up any worse than it has to be," he said. "I'd like to have the truck back in place by Monday morning, so the less time scrubbing the better." He came back over, took the mints from Sherlock, and laid a trail from the edge of the pigsty and up the ramp. "That should do it." He handed the mints back, keeping a few clenched in his hand, and Sherlock stuffed the bag in his trouser pocket._

 _Pasha walked over to the gate of the sty. "Now then. Hang onto the rope. I'm going to lead him to the gate now, and once it's open I'll come help you with the rope if need be." Sherlock wrapped the end of the rope twice around his hand and wrist, just in case (though he wondered absently what good it would do, since he weighed a maximum of 10 stone at present. If the pig wanted to run, he'd be no more than an annoyance bobbing along behind. Well, swearing and bobbing, most likely)._

 _Pasha, with the air of a Man With a Plan, moved briskly into place at the latch of the gate and whistled for the pig, while holding out the mints clutched in his hand. The boar looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then flexed its nostrils as it caught the scent of the mints. It moved ponderously towards the gate, Sherlock towed along in its wake by the rope around his wrist._

 _Pasha threw Sherlock a delighted smile, unlatched the gate and flung it open, dropping the last two mints in front of him as he backed towards the ramp. As the pig moved through the opening, though, the plan hit a snag, quite literally—the rope, still attached firmly to Sherlock's wrist, caught on the post anchoring the gate. The pig's forward motion yanked him abruptly over to the fence, much too close for his comfort. And then several things happened in quick succession._

 _First, Pasha realized the danger and moved quickly over to slip the rope over the top of the post before the pig's full weight fell on it and dragged Sherlock over the fence. At roughly the same time, Sherlock jerked quickly towards the post (and, coincidentally, the pig) to do the same thing. And finally, just as the rope came free of the post, the pig scented the bag of mints resting forgotten in Sherlock's trouser pocket._

 _The pig spun, terrifyingly fast, and lunged towards Sherlock's leg. Sherlock managed to stumble backwards just enough to keep those jaws from meeting in his thigh, but not quickly enough to keep the pig from latching onto his right ankle with an obscene crunching sound. He couldn't suppress a howl of pain as the jaws compressed, and one tusk slid sickeningly under the skin and grated against bone. Then Pasha was there, leaning over with the pistol in his hand, and shot the pig right in the middle of its forehead._

 _Pasha shoved his pistol quickly into the back of his shorts, then reached over and rested his palm against the side of Sherlock's face, taking in the shocked eyes and blanched skin. "All right, then. Let's get you out of there, OK?" he said gently. Because, of course, the pig had collapsed, jaws still firmly around Sherlock's ankle, pinning him in place. But things still might have been largely all right, even then, if a very large man hadn't suddenly stepped out of the darkness behind the sty and shoved a shotgun into the base of Pasha's skull._

 _Between shock and pain, Sherlock wasn't tracking events quite as clearly as he normally would. But he heard a basso rumble, astoundingly deep, tell Pasha to move aside and toss his pistol into the sty. Pasha was suddenly gone, and a stranger with a vast greying beard and a long black robe leaned over him. That deep, deep voice spoke to him, now. "I will get you free now. It will hurt a great deal, but I will do my best not to make it worse." Then the face turned, and he suddenly felt the pig's jaws move, around and, hideously, inside his ankle. And then, thankfully, he fainted._

Notes:

I know, I know-another freakin' cliffhanger. For reasons.


	14. Come to my aid, O people of the house!

_**Near Kursk, Russia**_

 _Sherlock came awake in an unfamiliar, dark, odorous building. He was lying on some sort of bedding, and had just enough time to register that, yes, his ankle still hurt to a staggering degree when Pasha's head popped into his field of vision. "Back with us, then?" Pasha said, attempting a smile and not succeeding._

 _Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows. His head swam alarmingly for a moment, but he forced himself to stay upright and the sensation faded. He sensed movement behind him, and turned his head to see the bearded giant holding out a large glass full of milky liquid. "Drink this," that basso voice rumbled. "I am going to do painful things to your ankle. It will be unpleasant, but you will be able to walk in two days if we do this. If not, a week, maybe more."_

 _Sherlock took the glass but made no move to drink. He looked now at his ankle. His shoes and socks had been removed, and his right trouser leg pushed up to reveal the area just above the joint swelling rapidly, with a long, deep, ugly tear through the skin on one side. It was no longer bleeding, but his leg was supported by a very bloody towel. The giant pointed at the mess. "That must be sewn. The bone is bruised but not broken. Infection is a danger, but I have a remedy for that." He held out a plate containing a mass of stinking green paste._

 _The giant paused, noting that Sherlock was still holding the glass. "You really must drink." Sherlock gave him a mulish look; the last thing he needed was to be sedated while they were under the control of a seven-foot hermit. The hermit sighed, reached over and pressed two fingers to the side of the battered ankle. Sherlock's vision whited out, and he came to himself lying prone on the bed again._

 _The big man leaned over and lifted his shoulders, folding two pillows firmly behind them. "Now, then. Drink."_

 _Sherlock looked at the glass reluctantly. "What's in it?" he said, in a mortifyingly wobbly voice._

 _"Vodka and poppy juice. Drink all of that, and then we will wait just a bit for it to work. And while we wait, we will talk," said the giant. He looked genially over at Pasha, who had stayed conspicuously silent throughout all of this. "I think Pasha Alexeivitch and I have some negotiating to do." Pasha flinched and stared at his shoes._

 _Sherlock took the glass and drank. It wasn't unpleasant—a medicinal, sweetish taste with an undertone of raw alcohol. The black-robed hermit took the glass away and after a few minutes came back with a stack of medical supplies which he dropped on the foot of the bed next to the plate with the green paste. He then sat on an oversized stool and clasped his hands in his lap._

 _"So, then," he said cordially. "Why did you decide to steal my pig? And why are you driving a truck you stole from Gregor Borodin?"_

 _Pasha choked on nothing and went into a coughing fit. Sherlock, starting to feel pleasantly floaty, stepped in. "You must be The Monk. We intended to leave money for the pig. Pasha has 450 rubles in his left pocket. And we borrowed the truck—we work for Borodin sometimes, you know."_

 _The Monk nodded. "Yes, that is one of my names. Though I have not always been a man of God." He looked sternly at the two of them. "Lying is a sin, you know. More so than theft, I think. You may wish to rethink your statement. I have many old friends, from my previous life, who tell me things. And one of them told me of a missing truck not two hours ago. A truck, I should mention, that I have ridden in a number of times. For Borodin."_

 _Sherlock was feeling remarkably unconcerned, though Pasha looked somewhat sick. "We do indeed work for him, you know. I'm the Crazy Englishman; you might have heard of me." He stuck out his hand, doing his best Normal-People Grin. "William Sigerson, at your service. I seem to be drunk now," he offered, in the interests of full disclosure._

 _The Monk smiled and took the hand in his. Sherlock noticed in mild amazement that it dwarfed his own; he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen hands much bigger than his._

 _"I am pleased to meet you," rumbled the Monk. "It's a pity we could not meet under better circumstances. I have always wanted to meet an Englishman, crazy or not. I hope that we can speak further together before Borodin kills you."_

 _Sherlock blinked, very slowly. Pasha coughed one more time and leapt into the breach. "He's not going to kill us. I borrowed the truck, I told you. It will be back in place by Monday morning. We just wanted to take the pig back as a surprise for all the drivers. A feast, you know? And we have the money—here, look!"_

 _Sherlock jerked; he'd started to nod off. He shook his head to clear it as Pasha fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the wad of bills. The money, in reality, was Pasha's and was intended for his daughter. There was an abrupt silence, and Sherlock realized that he had apparently just said that out loud. Pasha gaped at him, horrified._

 _The Monk chuckled. "Well. In vino veritas, it would seem. Though I think poppy juice and vodka works quicker than wine. So, tell me about this daughter."_

 _Sherlock was already speaking before Pasha could open his mouth. "His eldest daughter is dead, an overdose. His younger daughter is somewhat estranged. She's getting married in two days and didn't tell him. He found out and decided to bring money and food for the wedding feast. That's the pig. I don't think a dead pig is a good idea, but I have no children so I don't really know. Do you think it's a good idea?" he said curiously. He really did want to know. And he could think of no reason not to ask, though Pasha's red face led him belatedly to think that maybe he should have kept his mouth shut._

 _"I think perhaps it would have been a better idea if Pasha Alexeivitch had come and asked me for the pig, in exchange for honest work." Pasha had the grace to look somewhat ashamed. He wasn't quite as good as Sherlock at mimicking emotion, but it was passable._

 _The Monk looked carefully at Sherlock, who had started gradually listing to one side. "I also think it is time we treated your wound and let you sleep, young sir." He leaned over and pushed Sherlock gently down on his back, reaching for the packets of medical supplies with his other hand. "Your friend and I will work something out in due time, and with God's help, in a day or so you may be on your way."_

 _Despite Sherlock's rosy glow from the poppy juice, the next fifteen minutes were difficult. The Monk was efficient and gentle, but there is no way to stitch up a five-inch bone-deep gash that doesn't result in excruciating pain for the recipient, no matter how intoxicated. Pasha reached over to grasp Sherlock's hand and petted his head soothingly, while Sherlock gasped and sweated and shook._

 _Finally, finally it was done. Sherlock unlaced his fingers from Pasha's, and the older man grimaced and shook his hand to start the blood moving again. The Monk reached for the green paste and layered it liberally over the wound, then covered the whole with a clean cloth and pinned it in place. Sherlock closed his eyes and trembled, while Pasha rubbed a damp flannel over his sweaty face. And at some point, eventually, miraculously, he slept._

 _The night was a blur of evil dreams and heat. Sherlock was aware at times of Pasha at his side, wiping the cooling rag over his face and hands, but he quickly sank back into the drugged confusion of the poppy juice. Eventually, though, he lapsed into true sleep, and woke sometime past dawn, clear-headed, to see the Monk leaning over him, checking the bandages on his leg. The hermit, feeling himself observed, turned and beamed at him._

 _"So, how is it with you this fine morning?" he rumbled._

 _Sherlock took stock before he answered. He surprised himself by telling the unvarnished truth. "Fairly well. Some pain, but manageable." He glanced at his leg. "Do I really want to look?"_

 _The Monk chuckled. "It will not be pretty, to be sure. But now that you are awake, I can tend it, if you'd like to watch."_

 _Sherlock, before he could think about it, raised his eyebrows and sniffed "Obviously". But the huge man took no offense, walking away briefly and coming back with more packets of bandages and a bowl and towel._

 _The Monk looked at Sherlock before he began. "This will hurt, somewhat. But not badly. You will tell me if you need a moment, yes?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, which the hermit apparently took as agreement._

 _The leg looked…not bad, which was frankly shocking. Extensive bruising, of course, but the swelling was minimal and the skin along the tear, while red, lacked the shiny texture of true inflammation or infection. Sherlock became aware that he was gaping and closed his mouth, only to catch the eye of the Monk._

 _"Impressive, isn't it?" he rumbled. "The plant extracts both inhibit infection and reduce inflammation. Without this, you might have ended up very ill indeed."_

 _Sherlock was fascinated. "Where does it come from? What's in it?"_

 _"I don't honestly know," the hermit admitted. "It comes from a neighbor of mine. She cultivates the plants, marinates them in something, and gives me jars of the result. I am something of a healer for the neighborhood, though certainly Ekaterina could do better if she wished. She won't, though—she fears too much contact with people."_

 _Sherlock wasn't sure how to take that. "Does she…do the locals think she's a witch or some such?"_

 _The Monk spluttered with laughter. "Do you think this is a fairy tale? Baba Yaga in the forest?"_

 _Sherlock felt his cheeks flame. "Well, you certainly look the part. This is not precisely a hotbed of intellectual life, and the smell's a trifle ripe for most salons, I would say."_

 _The big man gave him a stern look. "Mind your manners, boy. You are a guest in my house, and I choose to forget why you originally came. But I could remember if pushed."_

 _Sherlock subsided with a stroppy huff. The Monk worked on his ankle in strained silence, until finally giving a resigned sigh._

 _"All right. If we must speak of secrets, we must." He wiped his hands and started rewinding the bandages, glancing up at Sherlock through bushy brows. "My neighbor, Ekaterina Yeltsin, was a scientist, a biologist and botanist, studying plant extracts from the deep forest. She came to spend more and more time here, and less in the city, where her masters hoped to use her discoveries but keep them secret from the rest of the world. She started keeping two sets of records, one for herself, and one for submission."_

 _He stopped briefly to pick up the soiled bandages and towel after finishing rewrapping Sherlock's ankle, then subsided onto the large stool to continue his story._

 _"When the USSR collapsed, many scientists left for the West, and many more were forced into other, menial jobs when money no longer existed to support their work. But some, like Ekaterina, one day found strange, dangerous men on their doorsteps, demanding their records and their obedience. Ekaterina was lucky. The day they came for her, I was visiting her small clinic in Kursk to pick up extracts in exchange for meat and produce. The men did not know I was there until it was too late."_

 _He saw Sherlock's face and shook his head. "No, I did not kill them, though there was a time when I would easily have done so. But I did contact old friends of mine who ensured that these men were soon bound and on a train to China, and I helped Ekaterina gather everything she wished to save and then burned down her clinic. She has lived here in the forest, on her own, ever since."_

 _Sherlock had sat silently through the story, but now turned his full attention to the Monk. "And you are not precisely a former Mafiya enforcer either, though I am sure you spent some time in that role."_

 _The Monk raised his eyebrows, tacit permission for Sherlock to continue._

 _"Clearly you have spent time in the military at some point—the way you move, the way you watch me, speaks clearly to that. Your ease in approaching Pasha from behind also recalls Special Forces training—certainly I was in no shape to notice, but Pasha spent his youth in Afghanistan and is sometimes startlingly observant." He scanned the dim room, noting Pasha still sleeping on a nearby pallet—he retained a soldier's ability to sleep through anything. "Your surroundings don't contain much that gives a true indication of your origins, but by your accent you almost certainly grew up somewhere other than here—perhaps Moscow? I can understand your motivation in breaking with Borodin—the man is both psychotic and foolish, a combination most former soldiers would find terrifying. My only question would be, why work for him at all? Surely other prospects would have arisen for a man with your talents, rather than a backwater petty tyrant."_

 _The big man shrugged his shoulders. "When the war in Afghanistan grew hot, I was 18 and a student at university in Moscow. I was studying what would today be called computer science, but at the time was a combination of mathematics and electronics theory. I discovered a serious error in the published work of one of my professors, a highly placed Soviet official, and because I was young and foolish I was outspoken in my criticism."_

 _He rose and stretched, his long arms brushing the low wood ceiling. "Three weeks later I was in Afghanistan with a large rifle in my hands. I presume my death was intended—I was given no training to speak of, no real preparation at all." He reached for something from a bookshelf in the corner, then came back and settled on the stool again._

 _"But I surprised them, and myself." He gave a rueful grin. "I discovered I was good at killing. I knew how to shoot—my grandfather owned this land and cabin, and I spent many summers here hunting with him. I had also been a wrestler at school, and once I had my first real hand-to-hand fight at our camp I was quickly selected for special training." He raised his bushy eyebrows. "I'm sure you know what kind."_

 _Sherlock nodded. "Special Forces? Death squad?"_

 _The Monk sighed. "The latter, eventually. My group were sent in when conventional methods failed, or were not working fast enough. I became a very efficient killer, despite my youth. After the first few times, I felt little or no remorse—the subjects were objects, not people. I lasted almost 8 years before I broke." He gave Sherlock a somber, knowing look. "All men in such positions eventually break, unless they are truly monsters. And I was not, though I once aspired to be."_

 _He reached over and held out the object he had picked up earlier—a silver picture frame, incongruous in this rustic cabin. "One of the few things I kept—I had planned to give it to my mother. The pictures show all. The first was taken on my first leave, about a year after my 'enlistment'. The second is at a promotion celebration, two months before my final departure."_

 _The pictures are startling in what they reveal. The first shows a smiling, arrogant, beardless boy—very tall, muscular, clad in a spotless Soviet dress uniform with numerous decorations. He looks cold, intelligent and dangerous._

 _The second, though—the second is a different person. The smile is gone, the face half-covered with a trimmed black beard. The sparkling uniform has been replaced by camouflage and high black boots—the decorations are gone, as is the arrogance. And the eyes—in this candid photo, taken without preparation, the eyes are dead. This is a lethal, lost man._

 _Sherlock only realized he was staring when the Monk reached over and gently took back the frame._

 _"You see. I knew you would," he rumbled. He placed the frame back on its shelf and began putting together plates of food while he talked._

 _"So. One day we were sent to punish a village for their lack of cooperation. In this case, punishment went beyond the norm. My officer wished to make a name for himself, so he decided that we should take a Biblical approach—salting the earth, as it were. We were ordered to kill every man, woman and child. And I realized, quite suddenly, that I would not do it. I would not kill ignorant people for being ignorant. I would not shoot infants in their beds, nor murder little girls while they screamed for their mothers."_

 _He came back to the bed and handed Sherlock a plate of cheese, buttered bread and apple pieces, settling back on the stool with his own similar plate. "I intended to simply leave—steal one of the trucks and come back to Russia. The other men did not oppose me—both because I was feared, and because none of them had the stomach for this operation either. The ambitious officer was foolish enough to try to stop me, and without a pause I shot him. Then I got in the truck and drove for the next three days, almost without stopping. When I neared Kursk, I burned the truck and my uniform in the deep forest, shaved off my beard and went looking for a job. It didn't take long to find Borodin."_

 _He paused, and Sherlock spoke. "You couldn't go back to where you were known—you were both a deserter and a mutineer, and had killed your officer. But you could come here—no one had seen you since you were a child, so they would not identify you, but knowing the territory and people well gave you an innate advantage. And with the Mafiya, your skills would be in high demand."_

 _The Monk smiled. "Exactly. And there I stayed, for almost 15 years. I went back to hurting and killing people, but only bad people. I told Borodin I would not touch civilians or innocents, and he needed my skills badly enough that he agreed. I had to remind him several times, but I kept my word."_

 _"So what changed?" asked Sherlock. "How did you end up…?" and he waved his hand elegantly at the cabin and the Monk's black robes._

 _The giant smiled. "Ah, well, that you will not believe. But perhaps someday your heart will change. Mine did." Sherlock raised his eyebrows enquiringly._

 _"I had a vision. A real, true speaking from God." He laughed at the expression on Sherlock's face. "_ _You see? I told you, you do not believe me. But it is nonetheless true." He rose and settled on the foot of the bed._

 _"You must understand, I was not raised in a religious household, and even my grandparents attended services only occasionally. So I never expected to return to the Church, and I certainly never expected to be chosen by God Himself."_

 _He settled back on the bed, shoulders against the rough wall. "I was on a job for Borodin—acting as a bodyguard, primarily. We were in negotiations with a rival group for control of opium imports from Iraq. The negotiations broke down, not because of adverse actions on either side, but because Borodin is crazy and decided that he had been insulted. He lied to me—told me that the competitors had ordered the deaths of two of our agents, when in fact he had killed the men himself in a rage. He sent me to kill the competitor's eldest son. I felt no compunction—this son was, presumably, involved in his father's drug business, killing innocents by proxy."_

 _"The boy was perhaps 20; tall, thin, a little like you, in fact. I found him home alone in the evening, reading. He had been taught well—he ran for a hidden gun when he saw me and pointed it professionally enough. But then he stopped—he could not pull the trigger. He was a child, not a drug runner, though I still believed him complicit in his father's operations."_

 _"He fell to his knees and wept as I approached with my weapon out. I stopped, raised my gun, and just as I prepared to fire, a blast of the brightest light I have ever seen shone in my face, blinding me. I was paralyzed, unable to move in the slightest. I suspect I did not breathe. The boy made no sound—I think he could not, but I will never be sure. Certainly he saw nothing."_

 _The big man looked earnestly into Sherlock's eyes. "You would think I would be terrified. I was not—I was awed, excited, but oddly not frightened. And suddenly I heard a voice, wise and loving. And it told me that, if I killed this boy, this innocent, I would be forever damned. It showed me what that meant—I remember no details, but I do remember the absolute horror I felt at that point, the desire to never see that again. And finally, it told me to leave and never kill another human being."_

 _The hermit rose, dusting off his long skirts and picking up the plates from their meal. "I have kept that promise. I left that day—picked up my belongings from Borodin's headquarters and loaded them in my truck. I told Borodin that if he touched the boy or any other innocent in this or any other matter, I would ensure that evidence was placed, both with the police and with Kaminsky, to ruin, possibly kill him. And he knew I would know if he went back on his word, and that I would do exactly as I said I would. He also, very likely, assumed that I would kill him myself as a last resort, and I saw no reason to disabuse him of that notion. I believe God would forgive a few empty threats in the aid of a greater cause."_

 _He walked over to a chest under the small window and started digging. "I have some clothes I collected for the poor. We should see if we can find trousers for you. Yours are ruined with blood, and I slit the leg." Apparently the sharing of secrets was over, then._

 _Across the room, Pasha abruptly snorted, coughed and sat up, blinking and rubbing his palm across his jaw. He saw Sherlock and smiled. "Villyam. Is it well with you?"_

 _Sherlock smiled back involuntarily at Pasha's obvious fondness before schooling his face to a more dignified mien. "Surprisingly so. Apparently plant slime is the new miracle drug." He looked back at their host, who had briefly stopped digging through the clothing chest to put together another plate that he offered to Pasha._

 _While Pasha ate, the big man helped Sherlock to the outhouse, essentially carrying him like a child. When they returned, Pasha finished his meal while the Monk helped Sherlock change into a pair of comically-short khaki trousers, along with an elderly belt to keep them from falling off. Pasha grinned. "You look like a sack of flour tied in the middle." The worn, baggy trousers contrasted wildly with Sherlock's elegant shoes and tailored shirt (also, like the shoes, bought in Paris), but the hermit had nothing else that would come close to fitting._

 _Once Pasha had made a trek to the outhouse as well and the debris from breakfast had been disposed of, the Monk bustled back over to Sherlock's bed and dropped down on his oversized stool. "Now," he said, rubbing his hands together theatrically, "how shall we manage payment for my pig? I have some ideas, if you do not. And no," he gave Pasha a minatory look, "your money will not do. An element of penance is required, after all."_

 _He turned his gaze to Sherlock. "You must keep to your bed for today, I think. But I have some translations I believe you can do for me. I was gifted with a collection of books not long ago, but two of them are in English. I have a laptop computer you can transcribe them into. It will perhaps not be exciting", he smirked, "but again, penance." Sherlock slouched down on the bed in sulky silence._

 _The big man then turned to Pasha. "You, though, I think can begin immediately. The truck is a very useful addition. You must keep it running to use the refrigeration, yes?" Pasha nodded. He and the Monk had manhandled the dead pig into the back the previous night, while Sherlock slept, and left it idling in place. The petrol wouldn't last forever, however, so they would have to move it soon to get more or risk the engine dying—and the pig going off when the cooling system quit._

 _The Monk smiled. "So, since the truck must move anyway, I believe it can move to a higher purpose. I have a number of deliveries and errands that need doing—I regularly make the rounds to provide medical care and minister to my flock, such as it is. But I happen to have several larger items to move now, and they won't fit easily into my own small truck—I would have to make several trips. So, you can help with these tasks. You, of course, will pay for the petrol and anything else we may need for the day. Is that acceptable?" He beamed at Pasha, as if actually caring whether Pasha found it acceptable or not. Sherlock found himself grinning at the Monk's manner. He had already resigned himself to several hours of profound dullness, but at least he wouldn't be required to make pastoral visits to the rural poor._

 _His own happy mood lasted only until the Monk handed him the books for translation, and he realized they were books of famous sermons._

 _The next several hours passed in mind-melting boredom. Pasha and the Monk came back briefly and they had a Spartan lunch of bread and cheese, washed down with a tangy apple cider than Sherlock quite liked. Then they took off again, leaving Sherlock alone with his sermons._

 _At first it wasn't too bad. He amused himself with alternate versions of the translations that subverted the meanings, trying to see how profoundly blasphemous he could be. But that palled quickly, if only because he knew that it would likely result in the Monk forcing him to redo the entire thing. Then he put the computer aside (knowing that he could virtuously point out that the battery was running low, and he had no way of crossing the cabin to plug it in at the one outlet connected to the generator), and cast his gaze around the room for something, anything, to entertain himself with._

 _Initially he entertained himself by mentally re-shelving the 50-odd books on the shelves, first by title, then by title as a subset within language, then by (apparent) publication date—the last was unsatisfactory to a degree since he couldn't pull the books down and check for accuracy._

 _That whole process used up 10 minutes._

 _Then he looked at the large framed wall map of Europe, Russia and Asia on the far wall and calculated the distances between his current location and every spot he'd visited in the past two years, followed by the approximate time it would take to reach each by various modes of transportation (plane, train, automobile, foot, and finally horseback)._

 _That used up an additional 10 minutes._

 _In the process of mentally shelving the books, he had noticed an intriguing box at the end of the top shelf above the farm sink. It was potentially more interesting than the books, but carried two inherent disadvantages: first, he would have to get out of bed on his questionable ankle; and second, he would have to be sure he could put it back in place before the Monk returned. John had always been particularly stroppy about Sherlock "not respecting his privacy", but Sherlock had learned to be especially careful about returning everything to its original location, so that solved that problem. Sherlock wasn't sure, though, that he would be able to get the box back in place. He reluctantly shoved thoughts of the box aside._

 _With a disgruntled sigh, Sherlock picked the computer back up and spent another 10 minutes translating another boring, pedantic sermon. Then he found his gaze drifting up to the box once more. He shook himself mentally and returned to his work for a further 10 minutes._

 _He thought about the box._

 _He put the computer aside fretfully and cast around for something, anything, else to distract himself. In desperation, he began mentally reviewing the visible food products on the kitchen shelves, organizing them based on a variety of orders (category—dried, preserved, raw; color; growing season; point of original origin)._

 _He thought about the box._

 _He forced his thoughts back to the foodstuffs, and created dinner menus based on the available materials, then calculated how long it would take to prepare each on the woodstove._

 _He thought about the box._

 _Finally, with a gusty sigh, he resigned himself to going after the box. One can only ignore one's nature for so long, after all. And he had managed to resist temptation for every bit of half an hour. Practically a new record._

 _First things first, then—testing his ankle. He gingerly shifted over and placed both feet flat on the floor. His attempt to put weight on the bad ankle, however, resulted in a bolt of pain that shot all the way up to his hip and caused an involuntary gasp. Clearly, standing and walking to the shelf was not an option without some sort of assistance._

 _He cast his eyes around the cabin again, looking for something that could be used to provide additional support. Finally, in the shadows on the far corner next to the door, he noticed a wooden rod that the Monk probably used to control the (now deceased) pig when moving it outside of its pen. Not exactly a crutch, but workable._

 _He slid carefully off the bed and onto his hands and knees, his bad leg flexed tightly to keep the ankle clear of the floor. This was still painful—the necessary movement and tightening of muscles pulling on the wound—but bearable, and nowhere near what load-bearing had entailed. He crept slowly and carefully across the cabin until he could reach out and grasp the wood rod. Gripping his prize firmly, he pushed himself off the floor, holding his bad ankle gingerly out to the side, until he reached a standing position._

 _That was the point at which he realized he had an additional issue: he was too short to reach the box. Not something that happened to him very often, but the Monk was after all almost seven feet tall and stored his things accordingly. He looked around the cabin again, considering his options._

 _He could drag the oversized wooden stool over. But he doubted he could climb up on it with one leg out of commission, and would prefer not to fall if possible. Jumping was out for similar reasons._

 _He carefully backed up to the counter next to the sink, put his "staff" carefully aside, and used his arms to lever himself up to a seated position on the counter. Then he stretched his arms up to the point where he felt overstretched and his back muscles spasmed, but finally had to admit defeat—he just couldn't reach._

 _He turned, ultimately, to his last option—the wooden rod itself. It wasn't optimal—the rod was quite narrow in diameter so his ability to manipulate the box was minimal and shaky at best. But at this point he was determined—he could no more give up now than he could walk out and trot across the barn lot. Physically and mentally impossible._

 _He took a firm grip on the counter with one arm and stood solidly on his good foot, holding the injured one carefully in mid-air, and extended his other arm and the wooden rod towards the edge of the box. The first attempts were unsuccessful, but after multiple frustrating tries he managed to move one corner of the box a couple of inches over the edge of the shelf. He put the rod aside and once again slid up onto the counter, reaching, straining to touch—and still couldn't quite reach._

 _He climbed carefully (but now somewhat angrily) down from the counter again, grabbed his wooden rod and resumed his poking at the edge of the box. He was elated to see the box move suddenly, to where at least four inches now hung over the lip of the shelf. He carefully shifted his weight to rest his hip against the counter in preparation for catching the box (since he would have to drop the rod as well, once the box started its descent). He felt a brief surge of smug satisfaction at having so neatly solved the problem, and that, as always, was when things went spectacularly wrong._

 _The box started to move, very much of its own volition, and rather faster than Sherlock hoped or indeed was quite prepared for. Sherlock lurched sideways, dropped the rod, and overbalanced as he attempted to keep from falling while still reaching up towards the now-teetering box. At the same time, he heard a slam and a clatter outside that indicated that Pasha and the Monk had returned and were, disastrously, on their way inside._

 _Things, far too many things, happened very rapidly after that. Pasha pushed the door open a crack, looking back over his shoulder at the Monk. Sherlock made a heroic grab for the rod, someone managing to reach, and pivoted back to poke frantically up at the box. But the box, with an odd, slithering, clinking noise, suddenly leapt off the shelf and tumbled straight for Sherlock's head. Sherlock, in an involuntary reaction, jerked back to get out from under and thoughtlessly stepped down with his entire weight on his bad ankle. He let out a howl of pain and tumbled to the floor. And just as the Monk followed Pasha through the door, the box upended in the air and sprayed its contents over Sherlock, over the sink, over the entire room, it seemed—marbles. Hard little glass missiles that bounced painfully off Sherlock's head and body as he cringed and panted with pain on the floor. Marbles that caromed off the hard surface of the sink and counter and rocketed across the room. Marbles which, unfortunately, also shot across the floor and under Pasha's feet, which led to him being deposited next to Sherlock with a curse and an almighty thud._

 _The box ended on its side on the edge of the sink, where the last few marbles rolled lazily out and pelted Sherlock and Pasha as they dropped off the edge of the sink. The Monk stood, still just inside the door, with his mouth slightly agape at the carnage. "Well," he rumbled mildly after a minute. "I see you found something to entertain yourself with." And for some reason that was the finishing touch. Pasha sputtered and went off into gales of gasping, hooting laughter, and the Monk followed him in short order. Sherlock just closed his eyes and sighed._


	15. I know not what I do

_**The Monk's cabin, near Kursk**_

 _After Pasha's hilarity finally ebbed, he levered Sherlock off the floor, while Sherlock choked and sweated with pain (and not a small amount of embarrassment, to be truthful). Pasha cheerfully volunteered to pick up the marbles while the Monk fixed Sherlock a half-dose of the vodka/opium mixture, and this time Sherlock drank it down without protest, since oblivion sounded extremely attractive at the moment._

 _Sherlock dozed away the time until they had a simple dinner of roast chicken and apples. The Monk explained the marbles— "I collect them all year for the children, then give them out at Christmas. I put them up on that shelf so that they wouldn't spill"—which of course set Pasha right off again. The Monk asked why an Englishman had ended up here, in the nether reaches of Russia, and Sherlock spun him a yarn about doing research for a book on post-Soviet Russian adaptations in the lands far away from Moscow. It was patently ridiculous and they both knew it—why would a scholarly researcher work for a smuggler in the Russian Mafiya? But Sherlock couldn't tell the truth, even though he felt a bizarre impulse to do so. He was getting so very tired of lying._

 _After dinner he found himself, to his inner amazement, sitting on the bed playing a rousing round of Snap with Pasha and the Monk. It wasn't like there was anything else to do, after all—the Monk's books held little interest for him at this juncture, and his phone charger wouldn't reach all the way across the cabin to the bed. The Monk smilingly refused him further access to the laptop unless he was willing to finish translating the sermons, and truthfully a child's card game was infinitely preferable to that (and of course the Monk knew if when he offered)._

 _After an hour or so, the Monk offered Sherlock another half-dose of the opium mixture, but after thinking about it a moment, this time Sherlock refused—it was starting to sound a little too attractive, and not because of the pain. Pasha said nothing but gave him a nod, which made Sherlock flush a bit—having Pasha proud of him for not being an idiot shouldn't feel so satisfying._

_They made an early night of it—the Monk had plans for tomorrow, and one could only play so many card games. The Monk changed Sherlock's bandages (on a wound that now looked the better part of a week old—at some point he must find out what was in that plant tincture), and they all settled down, the Monk and Pasha to sleep and Sherlock to do some much-needed maintenance in his Mind Palace._

 _Sherlock was awakened, very early indeed, by Pasha and the Monk preparing breakfast, a rather more substantial one than the previous day. The Monk worked at the great iron stove in the corner, cooking eggs and bacon, while Pasha helped Sherlock to the outhouse and back. He was pleased to note that he could walk this morning, after a fashion. It hurt, but the pain no longer felt dangerous, as if his foot would spontaneously explode. He looked up from his cautious forays into walking across the cabin to see the Monk beaming. "So, are you ready to re-enter the world today?" he boomed, in that deep, deep voice._

_Sherlock was, actually. Enforced confinement at any time was difficult, even when injured. Enforced confinement without stimulation of any kind was hideous. He assumed, however, that the Monk had plans for his release that did not include climbing into the truck and driving away. He was quickly proven correct._

 _"I have a task for you, my young friend. It won't put too much strain on your ankle, but it will take some time—most of the day, I expect." He looked over at Pasha. "Pasha and I will drive the truck into Kursk for a church planning meeting that will take many hours—there's a petrol station there so we can put enough in to keep the truck running while we are busy. But there are a few tasks that require a more personal touch, and perhaps a bit of negotiation, and those, I think, will fall to you."_

 _Sherlock managed not to laugh, with some difficulty. Negotiation, after all, had never been within his skill set. He tried to imagine Mycroft's reaction to his endeavors as a diplomat (or John's, for that matter) and had to work to repress a reluctant smile._

 _"I am certainly willing to make the attempt," he drawled. "But, as I think Pasha will tell you, I am not, perhaps, the best choice as an emissary." Pasha rolled his eyes and nodded in agreement._

 _"Very good then," chortled the Monk, rubbing his hands together. "I will draw out your route for you, and then we will sort your transportation. You won't come back here—at the end of the day you can meet your friend Pasha with the truck and continue on to your wedding. And for my part, I will forgive the loss of my pig, and I will even explain to Gregor Borodin that I asked you to borrow the truck for me." Pasha beamed at that._

 _The Monk bustled around, first bundling up food and a bottle of cider, then collecting paper and pencil and drawing a simple map, complete with the name of the first person he was to contact. Then he sat down next to Sherlock on the bed and spread it out for him._

 _"See here. There are three deliveries that need to be made, and they are essentially a chain—the first leads to the second, which leads to the third. They will explain what is needed when you arrive; I have let them know you are coming. Your transport will allow you to reach all three within the day." He reached behind him for the bundle of food, then pulled a second large bag from the corner, containing a quantity of the apples they'd eaten the day before. "The food is for your lunch; the apples are to pay the first person in your chain. This should be adequate, but again, may take some negotiation on your part—country people like to believe they are getting the best of any bargain, you know." He waggled his eyebrows. "I, too, am a country person."_

 _He stood up and stretched, then looked expectantly at Sherlock. "So—would you like to meet your transport?"_

 _Sherlock knew a moment of misgiving. He wasn't accustomed to "meeting" transport. It might just be a figure of speech—perhaps the Monk was one of those tiresome people who insisted on naming their vehicles like pets—but it didn't seem especially likely, as he exhibited no other sentimental traits. Still…_

 _Pasha stood as well, and tucked Sherlock's arm over his shoulder as extra support while they walked out of the cabin and down the steps. They looked over the barn lot, mystified—no vehicle was in sight other than the refrigerated truck rumbling gently behind the cabin._

_The Monk enjoyed their confusion for a bit, then motioned for them to wait, while he walked purposefully into the ramshackle barn. And when he came out, he was leading Sherlock's "transport"._

 _It was either a small mule, or a very large donkey—impossible to say for sure, given the quantity of shaggy hair tufted around the animal's body. Large ears, one flopped lazily over halfway up its length, twitched irritably as the Monk tugged on the lead rope. The donkey(?) was perhaps 13 or 14 hands high, topped by a battered saddle that looked old enough to have come through World War I._

 _The beast also appeared to have rolled in a barnyard at some point—a pungent odor of equine and manure wafted over to Sherlock with the animal's approach._

_The Monk stopped in front of Sherlock. "This," he announced, with a grand sweep of his arm, "is Dulcinea. She's not pretty, exactly, but she is very reliable. I had my friend Dima bring her by last night. She can take you on your entire route, and when you're done someone will come collect her." He beamed expectantly at Sherlock, clearly awaiting some kind of response._

 _Sherlock blinked. The donkey blinked back, with a look of profound equine mistrust (which Sherlock, a rider from a very early age, recognized with a certain amount of foreboding). That foreboding was justified when Dulcinea abruptly lunged forward and snapped at Sherlock's shoulder, while he hurled himself back into Pasha. "Jesus!" said Pasha, backing briskly away and hauling Sherlock bodily with him. "Is it rabid?"_

 _The Monk tutted soothingly, rubbing his knuckles gently down Dulcinea's long nose. "Now, now. She's just a bit shy. She'll get used to you." Dulcinea squeezed her eyes shut and leaned against the Monk's chest. "Here, come let her sniff your hands."_

 _"That's for dogs," Sherlock said, making no move forward whatsoever. Pasha stayed firmly behind him, out of biting range._

 _"Oh, she likes it nonetheless. Come on, just run your hand over her muzzle. She warms up very quickly," urged the Monk. Dulcinea imitated a large housecat, seeming nearly asleep while leaning against him._

 _With great misgiving, Sherlock stretched out his arm and reached carefully for the donkey's nose. Dulcinea continued to appear semi-comatose. Just as he touched wiry whiskers, however, wicked little eyes popped open and great yellow teeth shot forward. He managed to move his hand back, but not before he felt damp enamel slide along the edge of his hand as the teeth snapped closed just short of his fingers._

 _The Monk quickly grabbed at the cheek rein and pulled her slightly away. "Dulcinea! You bad girl!" he said in stern tones. Dulcinea shook her head a bit and butted him gently in the chest. "See there?" he said over his shoulder to Sherlock and Pasha. "She's just playing." He reached up, scratched her nose gently one more time, and tied her to the fence rail. "Let's go get your things together. We need to get underway."_

 _They walked back into the cabin. As Sherlock went slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily on Pasha, he looked one last time over his shoulder and saw Dulcinea looking at him with what seemed unsettlingly like a predatory stare._

 _By half-nine they were on their way. Pasha had helped the Monk tie the bag of apples and Sherlock's lunch to the back of the battered saddle, and then helped Sherlock mount the little beast. The Monk had already lowered the stirrup as far as it would go on the left side, and tied the stirrup up on the right since Sherlock's injury would not allow its use._

 _Once loaded, Sherlock was excruciatingly aware that he looked ridiculous. His long, thin legs (the lower six inches of which were now sans trousers due to the Monk's donated clothing) hung dangerously close to the ground on either side of his miniscule steed. Two large sacks (his lunch and the apples) were tied to the rear of the saddle and bounced against Dulcinea's hips with each step. And of course, it was all capped off by Sherlock's hideous (and completely necessary) Crazy Englishman straw hat._

 _Pasha took one look and howled. "Oh my God," he chortled. "I just realized. If she's Dulcinea, that must mean you're Don Quixote!" He all but rolled on the ground with glee._

 _"Then that would make you Sancho Panza, wouldn't it?" snarled Sherlock. "That's especially apt." The Monk just smiled and shook his head._

 _Pasha continued to giggle as he and the Monk turned to walk back towards the truck. That was a mistake, as it turned out, as Dulcinea took the opportunity to snake out her head and nip him smartly on his left bum cheek._

 _This time it was Sherlock's turn to laugh. He didn't quite fall out of the saddle, but it was a near thing._

 _Dulcinea, as it turned out, wasn't half-bad as a riding animal. Her gait, if not exactly speedy, was fairly smooth, and the ancient saddle protected Sherlock from her bony spine. She tried, early on, to break away and scrape him off under a low-hanging branch, but was foiled by Sherlock's riding skills and strength on the reins. Then she tried, twice, to abruptly rear up and throw him—same result. After the final attempt, she gave a gusty noise that was almost a sigh, and subsided into a sulky walk. Sherlock could sympathize—he was feeling remarkably sulky himself, and had no one with whom to share his ill-feeling._

 _His first errand was roughly 10 kilometers away—at Dulcinea's languorous speed, perhaps two-plus hours of ambling along. It was already hot, the sun rising higher and beating down on his straw hat. Dulcinea, whose hygiene was not of the best, was also drawing flies, which buzzed constantly and lit on both of them. Sherlock's bare ankles seemed particularly attractive; he was very glad his injury was still fully covered. Dulcinea periodically whipped her tail, with its spiky hairs, against her sides—Sherlock suspected she intentionally swiped his legs at the same time._

 _He had expected to be lethally bored on this expedition, but so far it was proving surprisingly interesting. Keeping Dulcinea in line took a fair amount of concentration, of course, but he also found himself noting facts about the wildlife and plants he encountered, very different from those he was used to encountering in the rest of Europe. The path wound past a swampy area that had some very intriguing carnivorous plants; he wished he were mobile enough to take measurements and samples._

 _With the passage of time he became more and more aware of the sun. He could feel it beating on his bared shins and ankles—they would inevitably sunburn. His hands as well, most likely, though hopefully his hat would protect his head and face. He was also becoming uncomfortably warm and a tad dizzy—perhaps he should get out of the sun and drink some of the Monk's cider from his sack ("and eat your lunch as well," he heard John's voice say. It brought an involuntary smile to his face)._

 _He pulled Dulcinea off the track at a small copse of trees near a weedy pond, then dismounted very, very carefully—he couldn't risk damage to his dodgy ankle at this juncture. It was very stiff, and putting weight on it was unpleasant, but that subsided somewhat after a minute or two. He limped over to a tree next to the pond and let the donkey drink (which she did, and thirstily—he would need to consider that going forward. He should have stopped sooner)._

 _He unhooked his lunch sack from the saddle and settled himself, not without difficulty, on the long grass under the trees, tying Dulcinea's reins loosely around a low branch. He left her enough loose rein so that she could comfortably nibble the grass._

 _The lunch was another simple affair—hard cheese, fresh apples, bread and butter, and a large bottle of cider. He put the cheese aside for later, settling on a slice of bread and one of the apples, washed down with half of the bottle of cider. He fiddled with his phone, hoping against hope for a signal—nothing, sadly. He considered mounting back up, but suddenly realized, as he moved to get up, that his head was beginning to pound uncomfortably. Common side effect of too much sun for him, and he knew it would get much worse if he ignored it._

 _He settled reluctantly back down, sliding to his back. Dulcinea was staring at him, apparently perplexed. Moved by some uncertain impulse, he reached into his lunch sack and pulled out another apple, holding it out to her. She gave him what was clearly a suspicious look—she was surprisingly easy to read. But the shiny red globe was very enticing. Finally, she edged cautiously forward, extended her muzzle, and slipped her teeth into the prize before darting back as far as her reins allowed. She chewed and swallowed in a ruminative fashion, never taking her eyes off him. Finally, though, she gave out a gusty huff, closed her mean little eyes and dozed. And Sherlock, closing his eyes against the thumping pain in his head, did the same._

 _He woke abruptly, disoriented and unsure of where he was. Then he jerked up, realizing he had fallen completely asleep without intending to (which was unsettling—not something he was prone to). He checked his phone—roughly an hour had passed. He now saw what had awakened him—Dulcinea had apparently tugged her reins loose from the branch overhead, resulting in a shower of leaves that had bounced off of his face. And the donkey now stood, a considering look on her face, roughly 20 feet away._

 _Sherlock thought furiously through his options. No sudden movements, clearly—having the donkey run off would be disastrous, as well as potentially dangerous given his limited mobility. He considered his "tools"—the sack and his clothing, basically, neither of which would be of any help. He briefly thought of trying to call her over before reason prevailed. Dulcinea was not the kind of animal who would respond to cajoling under any circumstances. That presumably left bribery._

 _He dug into the lunch sack and pulled out one of the remaining apples. Dulcinea looked on with a certain amount of interest, ears pricking forward. He rolled the apple in his hands, held it up as if admiring it, then took a large bite and chewed in the donkey's general direction. He risked a quick sideways glance through his lashes, and observed Dulcinea, staring covetously at the apple. He enjoyed his treat in theatrical fashion for another minute or two, then raised his head slowly and gazed indifferently in the donkey's direction._

 _Clearly he now had her complete attention. Without making any sudden moves, he used his fingers to pinch off a largish piece, holding it up in the air until he was sure she saw it. Then he lobbed it in Dulcinea's direction, carefully tossing it 4 feet in front of her current position. The donkey considered momentarily, then rushed forward and snapped the morsel off the ground, crunching contentedly. Sherlock didn't give her any time to contemplate moving away again; no sooner was she finished with that piece than another flew her way, this time a further 5 feet closer._

 _The donkey considered longer this time, but Sherlock studiously looked away, paying no apparent attention to her movements. Soon enough she inched forward slowly until she could reach the treat, which was crunched up as quickly as before._

 _She was nearly within reach now. If Sherlock had two sound legs he would have taken the chance and lunged at her reins. But he didn't, and had neither the time nor the energy to spend repeating this process. He almost, almost, threw yet another piece. But something made him hesitate. And before he could dissuade himself, he pinched off another large piece, put it in his fingers, held out his hand and simply waited._

 _Dulcinea stood stock-still for several minutes, ears flicking and tail whipping back and forth fretfully. Sherlock remained in place, not making a sound, still holding the apple in his fingertips. And slowly, slowly, the donkey began to edge forward. And finally, he felt spiky whiskers brush against his fingers as rubbery lips slid delicately over the apple and took it from his hand. He stared at her as she crunched happily, and then slowly reached forward and took hold of the dangling reins. Those little eyes looked at his hand consideringly—he could almost hear her thinking about it. Then she leaned forward, ever so carefully, until his fingers were touching her muzzle. He automatically began to lightly scritch above her nose, and was bemused to see her eyes close in bliss. "Well," he finally breathed. "You're a bit of a fraud, aren't you?"_

 _After attending to the call of nature (half a bottle of cider had to go somewhere, after all), he climbed on board and got back on the road. It was now midday or a bit past—the battery on his phone had died just after he awoke, so it was difficult to be certain of the time. But he had to be nearing his first destination. He knew only that his contact was named Oleg (if he had a last name the Monk didn't know it), and Sherlock was to pick up a chicken, trading the large bag of apples for it. Presumably he could tie another sack with the chicken to the back of the saddle—hopefully the bird would not be slaughtered until he arrived, so there would be no chance of having to ride cross-country with the smell of spoiled meat wafting around him. (He was going to be quite firm, however, that he would not be the one doing the slaughtering)._

 _They came upon a clearing, with a ramshackle house and barn in the middle, about 20 minutes later. Sherlock shouted out a "Hello the house!" first (in case some paranoid Soviet refugee was lurking inside with a shotgun), but when there was no immediate response he climbed carefully off of Dulcinea and tied her next to the surprisingly clean watering trough near the barn. He was almost to the side door of the house, limping heavily, when the screen door creaked open and an ancient human being tottered out. It was impossible to tell if the being was male or female—extreme age had removed any remaining sexual characteristics or covered them with wrinkles, until what was left resembled a walnut with legs. "Who are you?" it abruptly said, in a cracked voice that was still neither one gender nor the other._

 _Sherlock bent over slightly to reduce their roughly two feet of difference in height and went into his best impersonation. "I'm William Sigerson," he said with a polite smile, sticking out his hand. "The Monk sent me to pick up a chicken from Oleg." And even as he heard himself say it, he marveled at how completely absurd this was. His smile became a bit more real, for no apparent reason._

 _"Did he now?" the old creature cackled. "I told him he would have to make it worth my while. So what do you have in return?" Sherlock hobbled back over to Dulcinea and unhooked the large bag of apples. "He sent these," he said, and held the bag out to the goblin, who made no effort to take them. "They're quite good," he offered, anxious to get this transaction completed so he could get back on the road. He set the bag down at the man(?)'s feet._

 _The being shook his head slowly. "I don't think that's enough," he creaked. He looked Sherlock up and down. "Normally I would suggest that you do some work for me. I'm not quite as spry as I used to be," he said with a grimace that might, twenty years ago, have been a smile. "But you don't look much better off than me, now do you?" he continued, with a look at Sherlock's ankle. "And you're a skinny thing anyway. Not very strong, are you?" He made a creaky noise that was apparently a laugh._

 _Sherlock felt his cheeks flush. He barely restrained himself from blasting this decrepit individual. But then he remembered Pasha, and the truck, and the wedding. "I'm quite strong, actually," he finally managed. "But you're correct, I'm not at my best at present." He started to reach for his wallet—he had perhaps 25 rubles, enough to buy a chicken twice over- then remembered that his wallet had been in his trousers. His ruined trousers. Which were still at the Monk's cabin, presumably in a trash bin._

 _"I have no money with me," he grated out. "Is there some other service I can perform? I'm a very good translator; I know many languages quite well."_

 _The fossil laughed again. "I can barely read in my own language." He looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock was nonplussed—what else could he offer? The old man shook his head—clearly Sherlock wasn't playing the game properly. He tottered closer, while Sherlock debated looking for the chicken on his own and just leaving the apples._

 _Gnarled fingers reached out and stroked Sherlock's arm, while he resisted the urge to jerk away. "That's a very nice shirt," the cracked voice said. Sherlock blinked. "Yesss…," he said slowly, not at all sure where this was going. The fingers stroked the fabric of his sleeve harder. "That's a VERY NICE SHIRT," the creature blared, looking him directly in the eye._

 _The light, reluctantly, dawned. "You would like for me to give you my shirt in exchange for your chicken," Sherlock sighed. The wrinkled head bobbed. Sherlock felt compelled to make one last try for sanity. "But I have nothing else to wear," he almost-whined. The goblin threw up one wrinkled paw. "Oh," he chortled, "I have several nice shirts you can choose from."_

 _Ten minutes later, Sherlock was attired in an ancient t-shirt adorned with some unidentifiable cartoon character. The shirt, though surprisingly comfortable, barely covered his torso, leaving perhaps half an inch of exposed skin at his waist. "It belongs to my great-grandson," the ancient being rasped. "He's 13."_

 _Now that their business was concluded, Sherlock was anxious to be on his way. "Can you bring the chicken now?" he asked. "And perhaps a sack to carry it in?" It could, he supposed, go in the bag holding the rest of his food, but he'd rather not contaminate the leftover bread and cheese._

 _The goblin blinked at him. "Why would you put Nastia in a sack?" he croaked, while tottering very, very slowly towards the barn. Sherlock limped after him, but stopped when the ancient reached down and picked something up, nestling it in one stick arm._

 _And then, of course, it all slotted into place, and he detected the Monk's sense of humor at work. Because his task was not to take a slaughtered chicken to his next destination, tied on the saddle like cargo. His assignment was to ride across southern Russia, on a donkey, in his Crazy Englishman hat, carrying a live chicken._

 _He wished, somewhat hysterically, that John could see this._

 _He was finally back on his way by early afternoon. The goblin had plied him with lemonade (surprisingly good) and black bread (not, very—he fed it to Dulcinea as soon as they were out of sight), and handed him a tattered towel to wrap Nastia in. The bird, apparently of a phlegmatic disposition, took to this mode of transport calmly, sitting crooked in his left arm in her towel. She occasionally emitted little contemplative noises, but otherwise simply gazed around her in mild interest. Dulcinea had sniffed once and then ignored this interloper._

 _After a bit he felt feathers rubbing gently along his thumb. He took this as a cue to run one long finger gently behind the soft head, and received a grateful chuckle of sound for his efforts. He continued his motion; it was soothing, in a way._

 _An hour or so later he began to talk, running through his plans to deal with Borodin (which wouldn't come to fruition for several months, but could always stand additional contemplation and fine-tuning). Nastia, as it turned out, was a very good listener, making periodic clucks to indicate she was enjoying the sound of his voice. It was better than the skull, actually._

 _He stopped at a stream in mid-afternoon; his headache was back, he was getting much too warm again, and he suspected that Dulcinea would be needing water._

 _He set Nastia on the ground and left her to her own devices while he bathed his bare arms and overheated face in the cool water. Just before leaving the stream and climbing back into the saddle with his chicken, he took off his hat and dipped it in the water, and then turned it back over on top of his head, soaking his hair and shoulders. Dulcinea's shoulders twitched as cool water dripped off of him, but Nastia didn't seem to care. He made a mental note not to remove his hat once they got to the wedding venue—his hair would be madder than usual when it dried like this._

 _They finally reached their second destination—a rural store, much like those in pictures he'd seen of the frontier in America. He knew nothing of his "assignment" here, nor the name of the person he was to meet. As it happened, though, it didn't matter—there was only one person inside, though not in the way one would think, and no customers in sight. And this time, he was expected. He had no sooner stepped inside than a voice caroled from the rear of the building. "So! You must be the Crazy Englishman," a woman said, though no woman was visible. "I've heard all about you."_

 _He looked around for his host, finally spying a large speaker, topped by a security camera, against the back wall. "I've heard nothing about you, though," he said, somewhat snarkily. "Other than the fact that I have a chicken for you."_

 _"Yes, Nastia, correct? Best layer around. Maybe I'll get to keep her for longer than a week this time," the voice said. Sherlock said nothing, but raised his eyebrows inquiringly at the camera. "Oh," the voice finally said, "he didn't tell you then. Oleg and I meet here for poker once a week. Nastia is always his last bet when he has her, and mine when he doesn't. He won three weeks in a row, the old bastard. But this week his luck finally ran out." She snickered._

 _Sherlock could feel the last of his manners oozing out through his feet. He was sunburnt, his head hurt, his ankle hurt, and he looked ridiculous. And he was carrying a chicken. "Then I presume our business can be concluded quickly," he snapped. "I have your chicken; you have something for me. If you'll come collect her and give me what I need, I can be on my way."_

 _"Oh, no," gasped the voice, "I don't come out. I never come out for strangers. He should have told you."_

 _"Then I suppose I shall take my chicken and leave," sniffed Sherlock. He hobbled towards the door. His hand was on the doorknob when-_

 _Wait, wait," the voice said. "That doesn't mean we can't come to an agreement." Sherlock paused, raising his eyes to the camera inquiringly._

 _"You were to pick up the listening device, yes?" the voice offered. Sherlock said nothing; he had no idea exactly what he was supposed to receive. "The issue is, Nastia is already mine for the week—I won her fair and square, so all you've provided is transportation. That's not enough to offset the value of the bug." Sherlock had a flare of déjà vu—hadn't he already had this conversation? He mentally cursed the Monk and his bloody "country people"._

 _He rolled his eyes at the camera. "Look at me. I have no money; I have nothing to offer other than a donkey, which you may not have, or my skills at translation, which I presume you have little use for. So what do you want?"_

 _The voice paused, clearly considering the matter. Then—"Those are very nice shoes…"_

 _Thirty minutes later he was back on the road, sans Nastia. In addition to his meal-sack trousers and child's shirt, he now wore an old pair of trainers in a lurid shade of yellow. The disembodied voice had had him deposit the chicken in a nesting box placed behind the store counter, and then directed him to a small drawer in a tool chest for his electronic prize, which now resided in his lunch sack. She had also mentioned that his next stop was relatively close, which was a profound relief—between his pounding head and his ankle, he was ready for this little "adventure" to be over._

 _The voice was correct—his next stop was relatively close. After only 20 minutes of Dulcinea's ambling, they reached a little doll's house of a building, set in a beautiful little garden plot. Bees hummed around them as they moved up to the front of the house. By this time in a slightly spiteful mood, Sherlock tied Dulcinea so that she could nibble on any flowers she wanted. He fished the bug out of his lunch sack and hobbled painfully up the steps._

 _He waited briefly on the porch to see if someone came out, then knocked on the door briskly. Nothing. He waited impatiently for another two minutes, then knocked again, louder. This time he heard an indistinct sound from somewhere in the house. Finally, the door creaked open just far enough to see one watery blue eye peering out. "Yes?" an old, whispery voice said._

 _He held the bug up for the eye's perusal. "I'm the Crazy Englishman. The Monk said you would have something for me," he snapped. His head pounded in time with his pulse; he was suddenly aware that he was very hot, and he really didn't feel well. Abruptly everything came to a head, so to speak, and he found himself vomiting over the porch rail into the flowers. Dulcinea gave an offended whinny and scuttled aside._

 _After a bit he was aware of a presence at his side, patting his back and holding a cool, damp cloth to the back of his neck. "Poor boy," that whispery voice crooned. "You need to come inside and lie down." That sounded very attractive indeed; he kept his eyes closed against the pain in his head and let gentle hands lead him along. The hands led him through the house, so much cooler than outside, and pushed him down on a soft surface. The cool cloth was laid over his eyes, and a fan blew gently from across the room. It was bliss._

 _He came to himself an indeterminate time later. It clearly hadn't been long; the sun was still beaming in through windows across the room from the bed where he lay. The respite from the sun, and the damp cloth, had done him a world of good, though. Someone had also laid an ice pack across his ankle. He felt better, in a shaky kind of way._

 _"Oh, you're better," said that odd, dry voice. "I'm so glad." In the doorway stood a tiny wisp of a woman, elderly but not feeble. She walked over and held out a large glass of liquid, complete with ice cubes. "You must drink all of this, and another full glass when you're done." She waited expectantly; Sherlock's arm moved almost of its own volition to take the glass, and he raised himself up on the pillows enough to begin to drink. The first taste startled him, though, and the woman laughed at the face he made, a raspy little sound._

 _"I know, I know—it doesn't taste very good. Salt and sugar don't make a very good mixer. But you need both, so drink up." He reluctantly obeyed, finishing the glass with a grimace. She beamed and hurried off to bring him a replacement glass, then sat down on the foot of the bed while he worked his way through it slowly._

 _When he was done he laid back on the bed with a sigh. The woman tilted her head to the side like a bird, then smiled. It was time for a chat, apparently._

 _"So, the Monk sent you to me with your little gift. It's a bit of a joke on both of us, actually," she ducked her head a bit and grinned, "since I haven't had a use for such things for many years." She looked back up, giving him an earnest look. "We are very old friends, he and I. He saved my life once," she said, gesturing towards her neck. And Sherlock could just see, through her open collar, a wide white scar running all the way across. His eyes widened, and she saw._

 _"Yes, exactly," she said, nodding. "I had the misfortune to offend Gregor Borodin, a very long time ago. The Monk rescued me, cared for me, and brought me here." She looked around the small, simple room. "It's very quiet, but I find it suits me. I do little things to help him on occasion—repair electronic items, that kind of thing. And in return, he sometimes sends interesting people my way." She batted her eyes theatrically. "Like you, my boy."_

 _Sherlock shoved himself up to a sitting position, pleased to see that the pounding in his head was ebbing fast. He stuck out his hand. "William Sigerson. Also known as the Crazy Englishman." She took it and shook emphatically. "Valentina Karpov." She gave a sly grin. "Also known as That Crazy Bitch, once upon a time." Sherlock startled himself with a sudden laugh._

 _She stood up and moved away from the bed, clearly waiting for him to rise as well but watching him very carefully while he did so. He surprised himself by not wobbling in the process; salt and sugar water was more effective than he would have supposed._

 _She walked out the door, not looking to see if he was following. He did, of course. This was the most interesting person he'd met in ages. Well, other than the Monk._

 _He followed her down a narrow hallway to a country kitchen, where a small package rested on the table. "He came by a little while ago—you were dozing, so I didn't disturb you. That's for you, but you have to convince me to give it to you. He said to tell you the bug is not enough." She grinned, and Sherlock felt a twinge of foreboding. She simply smiled and waited as they settled at the table._

 _Sherlock, predictably enough, broke first. "What do I have that you would need?" he sighed. "I can translate, but no one seems to be interested in that. I can repair electronic items, but I presume that you are probably better at that than I am if the Monk sends you items to repair. I have no money with me—I hope the Monk left my wallet with my friend, come to that. So?" he said, a little challengingly._

 _"Well, let's see," she said thoughtfully. "You're correct, your skills will be of little use. I would have liked someone who could work on my roof a bit, but you're clearly not up to that at present. And I wouldn't take money even if you had it—the Monk told me that this should involve penance of some kind, not coin." She gave him a stern look. "I would hope that this experience would teach you not to steal again. Smart young man like you, it's disgraceful." Sherlock did his best to look penitent. It wasn't one of his more successful shams, as a rule._

 _It wasn't this time either, apparently. "Oh, really. You need to work on that," she snorted. Sherlock, almost against his will, found himself grinning up at her through his eyelashes. Her eyes widened. "And none of that, either. I'm old enough to be your grandmother. You're a pretty thing, I'll grant you, but I prefer my men a little more… seasoned, shall we say."_

 _Sherlock settled back in his chair, a sulky look creeping over his face. He laced his arms across his chest. "What would you have of me, then?" he said huffily._

 _She leaned over and patted his arm in grandmotherly fashion. "Now, now. Don't pout. It's unbecoming, and you're not 7 anymore." She stood up and grinned. "You know, I think I have just the thing. I wouldn't do it if you still had far to go, or if you weren't feeling better. But your friend is only a little more than an hour away, so...," she wandered out of the room, leaving Sherlock still seated at the table, mystified._

 _She bustled back into the kitchen with one arm behind her back, a mischievous look on her face. He looked on warily while she parked herself in front of him. She grinned, and whipped her arm out in front of him, holding out…_

 _"You know," she said, "this is a very nice hat."_

 _He set out again 20 minutes later. Valentina and the Monk had fed and watered Dulcinea while Sherlock dozed, so she was quite refreshed. Valentina had made Sherlock drink yet another glass of the salt-and-sugar mix, and made him take a bottle of it with him in his sack, with strict orders to drink some of it every 15 minutes until it was gone._

 _And then, of course, there was the contents of the box. When he slid it open, 2 items fell out. The first was the key to the truck. The second was a note from the Monk._

 _" **I see you have done well"**_ _, the note said._ ** _"Valentina tells me that you completed each of your tasks and made it here, despite making yourself ill. Believe me, that was not my intention—I forgot how delicate you city boys are."_** __ _Sherlock huffed at that, but kept reading_ ** _. "I have enclosed the key to Borodin's truck—you will find your friend Pasha sitting in it when you arrive. The pig should be fine without refrigeration for an hour or two—just make sure you don't open the compartment and let the cooled air out."_**

 _" **One more thing. I know you lied to me, about who you are and what you are. I do believe, however, that you are working for the good, or I would have called Borodin myself. Please don't make me a liar as well."**_

 _" **Your friend,**_

 _ **Alexei Dushov (the Monk)"**_

 _Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt about that. Was the Monk his friend? He'd always found that very hard to judge; wasn't sure what the qualifications were or where the dividing line lay. But for whatever reason, he seemed to be possessed of more friends these days, more easily acquired, than he had ever been in his life. It was perplexing. But it also made him feel curiously warm. He discussed it with Dulcinea while they walked; she wasn't quite as good a listener as the chicken, though._

 _After what seemed like days, they finally neared the end of their road. Sherlock could feel the sun frying the skin of his face and neck. He would run a high fever tomorrow, he knew, and be ill most of the day—it was inevitable after this kind of sunburn. He took another swig from his bottle of solution, grimacing. He cursed Pasha, he cursed Dulcinea, he cursed the Monk. After a bit he cursed himself as well—after all, none of this would have happened if he hadn't let Pasha talk him into this expedition. Although the end result could have been worse—if Pasha had actually gotten Kolya to come, it might have ended in gunfire rather than farce._

 _They rounded one last corner of the path and saw a welcome sight: there, in front of a small cabin, sat the truck. Sherlock clucked at Dulcinea to get her to speed up a bit; she blew irritably but conceded to cantering the rest of the way. Sherlock whistled sharply through his teeth (a skill taught him, amazingly enough, by Mycroft) and the door to the cabin popped open to reveal a beaming Pasha, followed by an unknown, scowling man._

 _Pasha came bustling over and bodily lifted Sherlock off of Dulcinea, while he huffed in protest. "So!" he boomed. "I told Kapotkin you would make it." He looked tellingly over his shoulder at the other, scowling man now holding Dulcinea's reins. He set Sherlock down and stood back, then started chuckling, which led quickly into a belly laugh. "What on earth are you dressed up as?" he sputtered, while Sherlock scowled back. "And Christ, you're red as a beet. Where's your hat, you madman?"_

 _"It went to your benefit," sniffed Sherlock. "Just like all the rest of it." He held out the key. "Now, can we finish this, so I can go collapse somewhere and enjoy my heat exhaustion in comfort?" Pasha bowed, deeply and floridly, and took the key._

 _Sherlock started to walk to the truck as well, when something made him stop. He hobbled over to where the dour Kapotkin stood with Dulcinea, the lunch sack still strapped to the back of the saddle. He reached inside, pulled out the last apple, and proffered it to her on his palm. She gave him a considering look, then carefully opened her mouth and closed her teeth on the apple. He felt her wiry whiskers on his skin, but not a hint of teeth. He paused momentarily, while she crunched away, and then reached over and scratched down her nose. She stopped chewing, squeezed her eyes closed, and leaned gently against his hip. Then he patted her shoulder and walked away._

 _ **Safony, southern Russia**_

 _It took them almost two hours to reach Pasha's village, while they sweated and argued and laughed. Pasha was certain that Sherlock's trip had been dull and easy; Sherlock insisted it had been like something out of a Greek tragedy. Neither of them spoke about what their reception in Safony might be; Pasha had hardly spoken to his daughter in months, and Sherlock suspected it truly would be a tragedy if this grand gesture was rejected._

 _By the time they reached Natalia's home it was almost sunset. Sherlock's sunburn fever had arrived early, apparently, so he was just this side of miserable in the sweltering truck. Pasha was nervous to a fault, biting his fingernails and tapping endlessly on the steering wheel._

 _It was surprisingly quiet. Sherlock expected a yard and lane overflowing with vehicles and hordes of drunken revelers. Neither was in evidence, other than an elderly truck parked on the side of the house. Pasha, because of the weight of the pig, wanted to park as close to the house as possible, which entailed leaving the truck with the front end sitting a bit above the rear. They would have to be careful the carcass didn't roll when they opened the back._

 _Pasha dithered for an uncomfortably long time, while Sherlock agonized over what, if anything, he should say. And then Pasha honked the horn, took a deep breath, and stepped out._

 _Sherlock got out as well, and so was in a perfect position to see Pasha's face when his daughter—it had to be his daughter—came bustling out of the house, followed by a young, stocky blond man. He was also able to see her face melt into a smile, and to see Pasha…just melt completely._

 _Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt about that; it was both uncomfortable and good. Confusing, certainly._

 _Natalia started to speak, holding out her arms to her father. Pasha interrupted her, launching into a speech he had clearly been planning for some time. "I know. I know I've been a terrible father. I know I have spent more time away than I should, and I'm sorry for that. But I want—I need to be a part of your life. And I would very much like to be part of your wedding. So Villyam and I" (and here he gestured for Sherlock to help him lift the gate of the truck) "have brought you something for the wedding, in addition to a bride gift." He watched Sherlock haul at the handle of the rear door, which was wedged shut somehow._

 _"But Papa…," Natalia began, and Pasha cut her off. "No, wait, please. I want you to see. We worked very hard to get this for you, and I want you to see." "But Papa, really…" said Natalia. Sherlock wanted to smack her. He hauled again with Pasha on the gate, much harder this time. It still refused to move. Finally, the young blond man came and stood on the tailgate to help them. When it still refused to move, he jumped up and down, using his body weight to free the stuck latch, and they all hauled again._

 _All at once, there was an unsettling, shifting sound from within the truck. But Sherlock couldn't worry about it, since the door also abruptly started to lift. The young man hopped quickly down to stand back by Natalia, and Sherlock and Pasha stepped to the side slightly to give Natalia a clear view of the magnificent gift they had brought._

 _And then the door slid up all the way, and Sherlock caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and saw the hugely swollen body of the pig roll, in slow motion, over the tail gate and drop heavily to their feet, where it promptly exploded, spraying them with foul-smelling matter from head to toe. If Sherlock hadn't seen it himself, he wouldn't have believed it. As it was, he was aware of various anatomical remnants dripping off his hair and shoulders and plopping greasily to the ground. Pasha, in no better shape, looked at him blankly and then spoke. "I think the refrigeration unit failed." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "Never would have guessed," he gritted out._

 _It was at just that point that the young blond man pulled out a mobile phone and took their picture, while Sherlock glared death from his eyes. And then Natalia, released from her momentary shock, opened her mouth and said what she tried to say all along._

 _"Papa? The wedding is next month."_

John and Mary howled till their sides hurt. Sherlock beamed blearily from the sofa, pleased at his efforts. Suddenly, though, he lurched up from the couch and turned to John. His face was crumpled and his eyes were large and tragic. "I don't feel well," he moaned. John quickly shot out of his chair and hustled Sherlock down the hall to the loo, while Mary continued to giggle weakly on the couch.

Much later, after Sherlock was cleaned up and tucked in his bed in the spare room with a bin and a glass of water, John wandered back into the lounge to clean up the leftover glasses. He noticed Sherlock's photo still resting on the coffee table and picked it up, chuckling again at the ridiculous story. He started to put the snapshot back in Sherlock's wallet when he noticed it was thicker than it should be. He picked at the edge a bit, and realized there was a second photo, lightly adhered to the first one at the corners.

It was just Sherlock in this one, but it was very different from the first. In this picture Sherlock was alone, and apparently tipsy. It looked like it had been taken at some party or other—perhaps the actual wedding, then. Sherlock's curls were dark red and sweaty, and he had a sprinkling of auburn stubble. But most arresting of all was the look on his face. In this picture, taken in what had largely been very difficult times, Sherlock's eyes were turquoise and beaming, and he was _happy_.

And John found himself saying a prayer to whatever deity was out there, thanking Him/Her/It for Pasha, and praying that wherever he was, he was at peace. If only for bringing that look to Sherlock's face, he had earned it.


	16. Would Heaven I know what all this means

John wanted to believe that things were getting better. Sherlock seemed calmer, most of the time, and there hadn't been any "incidents" in weeks. He came to dinner once a week (unless a case intervened), and they usually ended up talking late into the night afterward, although John did notice that much of it had nothing to do with Sherlock's time away. Greg Lestrade was making an effort to stay involved as well, enticing Sherlock along on cases that weren't always, technically, exactly _his_ in the finest sense of the word, even dragging him over to France for a week to consult with the Surete in Paris. And John had been astounded one evening to catch Sherlock playing online Scrabble with _Mycroft_ , of all people. (In retrospect it did make sense—who else could they play against, after all?—but the idea of Mycroft actually voluntarily _playing a game_ just boggled the mind).

There was something there, though, just under the surface, that disturbed John. Times when Sherlock would abruptly stop talking and leave the room, coming back 20 minutes later with no explanation; times when he saw Sherlock flinch bodily at sudden noises. John tried to tell himself it was all part of the healing process—it had taken him a long time to reintegrate himself after Afghanistan, after all, and Sherlock had only been home a little over 3 months. But in the past two weeks, those odd reactions seemed to be increasing rather than decreasing.

John had tried, at their last dinner together, to broach the subject—ask if Sherlock was struggling with something, if he could help. Sherlock shut him down completely, standing up and going into the kitchen to help Mary with the washing up. And of course that, in and of itself, was so out of character that John wasn't sure what to make of it.

He broke down and asked Mrs. Hudson finally—if she'd noticed anything, any change. "He's not sleeping much. I think he's been having nightmares—I heard him one night," she said reluctantly, as if she were telling tales out of school. "But he's been eating some—I've made sure of that." And John was certain she had—Mrs. Hudson was lethal with the baked goods, and was not above threatening to call Mellie Holmes if she had to. John tended to think of her as Sherlock's Backup Auxiliary Mum.

John observed, and worried, and Sherlock alternated between flitting about like a hummingbird on speed or lying corpse-like on his sofa for endless hours (John could hardly say "their" sofa these days, though his traitorous thoughts insisted on calling it that). Twice John had come up the stairs and found him sleeping soundly; that would have been a good thing under normal circumstances, especially since Mrs. Hudson had mentioned the nightmares. But Sherlock not waking up at John's moving around the flat was just unsettling. He'd never seen Sherlock sleep this heavily unless he was very ill or very exhausted.

John's concerns, in the end, had to take a back burner once the case of the vanishing girls popped up.

Aislinn Reid was the first. Tall, slender, red hair, intelligent by all accounts, and an excellent student. 19; a star sculptor at University of the Arts who was already getting noticed in the larger art world, with an upcoming solo show in two months. She had taken a call late one evening; her roommate said that the caller told her someone had damaged one of her pieces that was on display in one of the school buildings. She had left to go meet the caller (male—no other details), and not been seen again. No ransom note. Aislinn had no steady boyfriend, no known enemies, no especially bad habits (and certainly not drugs). Her caring parents had come from Yorkshire and were still camped out with distant relatives in London, hoping against hope after almost two months of nothing. The disappearance made a bit of a flurry in the press, but nothing exceptional; young girls go missing all the time, after all.

The second, two weeks later, was Melanie Downs. She was a short, curvy natural blond, 20, an Olympic hopeful in equestrian sports. Like Aislinn Reid, she was also a uni student, studying telecommunications at a technical institute in her off-seasons. She had been called by a trainer one evening, according to her (casual) boyfriend, and gone over to the barns to see about changing feed for one of her two horses. She never came home, nor did anyone at the barns that evening remember seeing her. Again, there was no ransom note, even though Melanie came from a very affluent background, and her parents broadcast an appeal on both the telly and the internet offering a substantial reward for information leading to her return.

The third girl was the one that ultimately secured Sherlock's full attention, but not, as it turned out, because of any special interest in the nature of the case itself. Nicolette Hardy was 19, wispy and dark-haired, with a delicate beauty that served her well in her chosen field—she was an elite student at the Royal Ballet School, and an odds-on favorite to be a star in another couple of years. She went missing one evening two weeks after Melanie—but no one knew it until _after_ the fourth victim was reported, since she had supposedly boarded a train for a week-long dance seminar in Paris. No one knew, in fact, until she failed to come home from Paris, three days after the fourth victim was reported missing.

The third—actually the fourth-victim, though, was the one that really started the process of Sherlock's involvement, since that was the point at which Lestrade turned up at Baker Street asking for his help. Sherlock was reluctant, convinced that the girls had voluntarily left; Lestrade had finally enlisted John's help and brought him along to try and herd Sherlock onto the case.

"The latest is Andrea Aldridge," said Greg, dropping the files on the coffee table next to Sherlock. "Age 21. Maths genius; graduate student at the London School of Economics. Mum's Jamaican, Dad's Scottish. Tall, dark curly hair; beautiful girl, really." Sherlock rolled his eyes. John flipped through the photos and agreed with Lestrade; Andrea had the features of a world-class model, with caramel skin and striking green eyes. "Andrea was working on her doctoral defense, and had regular evening meetings with her advisor a couple of nights a week. According to her roommate, she had a call changing the date and time of her regular session to that evening. She went out about 8 and never came home. That was two days ago."

Sherlock frowned. "I will grant that three girls going missing in two months is unlikely to be coincidence, especially given that all of them were apparently stable individuals. The phone calls are interesting; how would the same person or persons have the private phone numbers of all three without knowing them all in some fashion? No known links between them, I presume? At least none that your marginally-efficient staff could establish?"

Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but he did give a gusty, long-suffering sigh. "No, and that's why I'm here. It's certainly not for your charming personality, mate."

"Why should I waste my time being charming? You like me anyway," Sherlock smirked.

Greg didn't stay long, pointing out that someone had to get back to manage his "marginally-efficient staff". John thought about it, then picked up the files, carried them to the shared desks and starting spreading them out while Sherlock looked up what appeared to be random information about components of the girls' lives: maps of school campuses, schedules of dressage competitions, current trends in contemporary sculpture. John had the oddest feeling, though, that he was just going through the motions. He lacked that laser focus that was normally latched on as soon as they were engaged in a case.

John left about 10; Sherlock was locked in his Mind Palace on the sofa, and they had yet to make any real headway on the case. Tomorrow they planned to go to the Yard and review some of the interviews with family and friends, and then meet Mary back at 221B for dinner (since John suspected he and Sherlock would have little time for that kind of thing once the case really kicked into gear).

He met Sherlock at the Yard at noon, not surprised to see him striding back and forth impatiently on the pavement when he stepped out of the taxi. "We agreed to meet at 12," Sherlock snapped in an aggrieved tone. "It's now 12:08."

John raised his eyebrows in an "and your point is?" kind of way. "Sherlock, I don't think you've ever intentionally been on time for an appointment in your life. And you know what traffic is like between here and the surgery."

"Then you should have left earlier," Sherlock snarled, and swept into the building without looking back to see if John was coming.

Well, all righty then. _This_ was going to be a pleasant afternoon.

The day turned out just about as John expected; Sherlock was by turns surly and bored, and itching for a fight, it seemed. John refused to give him one, and Lestrade certainly wasn't going down that road, so they both ignored the volleys of taunts, sneers and exaggerated sighs launched from their resident Prince of Petulance.

Part of Sherlock's frustration was well-founded, unfortunately. Even Greg had to admit that the investigating officers had done a poor job on some of the interviews—they hadn't even consistently asked the same questions, leading to glaring gaps that could only be filled through re-interviewing.

John and Sherlock were just about to leave the building to begin part of that process when Sally Donovan banged open the door to the conference room, an incident file in her hand. 'There's another one," she said grimly. "19-year-old ballet student. Missing almost 10 days now—we didn't know before, since she was assumed to be at a dance seminar in Paris. Was supposed to be home last night and never showed up. The family called the ballet offices in Paris and discovered that she never arrived." She slid a photo out of the slim folder and pinned it up to the board next to the others, while John reached for the report.

An odd sound behind made him look back at Sherlock. The man was stock still, his face suddenly chalk-white as he stared at the photo pinned to the board. And just as John opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, he spun on his heels and slammed out of the room, while Donovan and Lestrade gaped after him.

John hustled out of the room in his wake, just in time to see him disappear around the corner, phone to his ear. He had no trouble following, though, since he abruptly heard Sherlock semi-shouting. "You know exactly who this is," he said menacingly. " _So get my brother on the fucking phone!_ "

John stood beside Sherlock, shocked at both the tone and the profanity. Sherlock just didn't _do_ that—he wasn't really all that comfortable talking on the phone generally, finding it difficult to judge the correct tone of the conversation without being able to see the person involved. And he virtually never swore—that alone was an indicator of severe upset.

John could hear muffled noises from the other end, and suddenly heard what was recognizable as Mycroft's slightly nasal voice. He started to speak but was cut off by Sherlock. "Nicky is missing," he said bluntly, with more than a hint of unsteadiness. "Her name has come up in connection with several abductions of young girls that John and I are working on. I need to speak with Alistair and Alicia as soon as possible, in person preferably. Do you know if they're in London?" More indistinct sounds from the other end. Sherlock nodded. "Good, then. Text me when you've arranged it."

Two hours later (after a minimal explanation from Sherlock, which consisted entirely of a muttered "I know the family"), John found himself in one of Mycroft's luxurious cars, pulling up to an elegant townhouse in Belgravia. Mycroft wasn't with them, but Sherlock had mentioned that he would meet them here.

"Here", as it turned out, was the London home of Alistair Hardy, well-known philanthropist and minor peer. He was also Mycroft's oldest friend—they'd apparently known each other since they first started primary school and were neighbors at the Holmes family home in Surrey.

As they pulled up, the door swung open and Mycroft stepped out, accompanied by a handsome blond man and a tiny, dark-haired woman. As Sherlock opened the car door and emerged, the woman surged forward and grabbed him in a firm hug. "Oh, Locket!" she cried. "Thank you so much for coming!" Sherlock, to John's amazement, returned the hug, and then moved to the man and accepted his brief hug as well.

John turned to Mycroft, mildly stunned. "Locket?" he asked softly. Mycroft gave a thin smile. "Sherlock's childhood nickname was 'Lockie'. As a toddler Nicolette started calling him 'Locket' instead, and it stuck, at least with the Hardys." He watched as Sherlock and the Hardys headed into the house. "Alistair and I knew each other before Sherlock was born—he even helped change Sherlock's diapers a time or two. Alistair and Alicia married quite young; Nicolette was born when Sherlock was 14, and he earned extra money on his school holidays childminding her."

John was astounded at the idea of Sherlock minding a baby, minding any child, in fact. But these people had clearly known him all his life; he'd have to take Mycroft's word for it.

The ensuing conversation was unlike any other interview John had ever had—everyone in the room was intelligent, warm and concerned, asking the right questions and volunteering just the kind of information that would be truly useful. It was like being in an alternate dimension—Sherlock hardly had to ask any questions at all.

That, of course, didn't stop Sherlock from occasionally being abrasive, but Alicia was having none of that—a simple "Locket" under her breath brought him right to heel, while John silently marveled.

Unfortunately, her parents' wholehearted cooperation didn't generate any information that was likely to identify Nicolette's kidnappers. "We really had no idea," said Alistair, with a world of self-reproach in his voice. "She said she would be tied up until very late every evening, so we didn't think anything of it when we didn't hear from her during the week of the seminar. Alicia wanted to call her one evening and I talked her out of it," he said, his voice cracking.

"It's doubtful it would have made any difference had we known," Sherlock said dispassionately, but John noticed that he said it without the dismissive tone he would normally use for such a pronouncement. "The police have known about the other girls' abductions from the beginning; timing has not been critical."

Sherlock stood and began prowling in circles around the lounge; it was likely he simply couldn't bear to sit still any longer, and it hadn't escaped John's notice that he was exhibiting all his "tells" for emotional upheaval—fingers twitching rhythmically, lack of eye contact, jerky speech patterns. It was at times like these that John returned to his original assessment of Sherlock as somewhere on the autism spectrum; emotional stress made it harder for Sherlock to mask some of his atypical behaviors.

"There must be some commonality," he said tensely. "We're just missing it. What do all of these girls have in common, something that distinguishes them from all other girls of a similar age and appearance? They aren't targets of opportunity; someone actively searches them out, deceives them, calls them pretending to be someone else…"

Alicia abruptly interrupted. "Calls them? They were all called before they were taken?" she asked shakily.

Sherlock nodded and looked at her expectantly. She didn't disappoint.

"Nicky had a call the afternoon before she left," she said, looking to Alistair for confirmation. "Remember?" He nodded. "She said it was the booking director for the seminar, telling her they had changed her train reservation to be an hour earlier. She really had to hustle to finish everything on time," Alicia continued. "We dropped her off outside St. Pancras Station. She insisted we not wait," she said, and a tear suddenly tracked down her cheek. She caught Sherlock's hand as he made his twentieth round of the room. "We gave her to them, didn't we?" she wailed, and Sherlock looked helplessly at her husband, who strode over and bundled her firmly in his arms.

That was basically it for the interview—everyone seemed to recognize that they had gathered all of the information they could at this juncture, and it was pitifully little.

Mycroft stood with them on the pavement outside the house. "It's not enough, is it?" he said, already knowing the answer. "Of course not," Sherlock snapped, before stopping himself. "I'm…it's not their fault. You need to let them know that," he said fiercely, looking back at the door. Mycroft nodded, accepting the unspoken apology.

The ride back to Baker Street (without Mycroft, who stayed behind) was long and largely silent. Sherlock was _worried_ ; he wasn't able to embrace his typical detachment with this case, and it was clearly affecting him. John tried to speak to him twice and was ignored.

Finally, after a solid 10 minutes of silent brooding, Sherlock spoke. "Do you think they're dead?" he said suddenly, in a very small voice. "No," said John, in as reassuring a tone as possible. And he didn't think they were, actually. "They aren't random victims, you said it yourself. If this person was just pulling girls to murder, the bodies would be turning up. And none have."

Sherlock nodded. "That's true." He seemed to be saying it to himself as much as to John. And John was suddenly struck by how very difficult this must be for him—to know what he did about the terrible things people did to each other, to know that anything, _anything_ , could be happening to a child he had known all her life.

It was a terrible evening. Sherlock ate nothing, and snarled at John when he tried to force tea, coffee, even cider down him. He looked obsessively at the files but learned nothing; flitted unceasingly in circles until John, in desperation, grabbed his hand and made him stop. "Look, you're exhausting yourself. Let's take a break. Go for a walk, go to a late dinner, go to Bart's. Just do _something_ other than tearing yourself to shreds."

And Sherlock, in a move that shocked both of them, actually shouted at him. "There's nothing I _can_ do!" They both froze momentarily at that anguished cry. Then Sherlock blinked, clearly not sure what had just happened. "I don't…sorry," he said much more quietly, ducking his head a bit.

"'S alright," said John, as calmly as he could.

In the end they both ended up staying awake most of the night. John couldn't leave Sherlock alone—if ever there was a danger night, this would be it. He texted Mary at 11 and told her; predictably she was both sympathetic and sensible. _**"See if you can get him started with his violin. You know that usually helps."**_

John took the suggestion, but in retrospect almost wished he hadn't. Sherlock picked up his instrument and spent the next two hours alternating between wild, frantic, almost atonal screeching and some of the saddest music John had ever heard. He wasn't sure which was worse, and if the music reflected what was going on in Sherlock's head…

Around 2am, John laid down on the couch, intending to just rest a bit; Sherlock had devolved into sitting huddled in his chair, plucking his violin aimlessly. John was terrified of going upstairs, afraid that if he left the room, Sherlock would leave the flat. Nothing he could find out there tonight would be good.

Something woke John just after 5. He jerked awake and looked frantically for Sherlock, giving a heartfelt sigh when he found him still in his chair. He was curled into a tight, defensive ball, and at some point exhaustion had overtaken him. His eyes were closed though he still looked far from relaxed. He didn't stir when John gently slipped the violin from his lax fingers and placed it carefully in its case. John quietly walked into Sherlock's bedroom and came back with the duvet, which he draped over the sleeping figure. Then he laid back down on the couch, covered himself with the tatty afghan and closed his eyes.

John woke again to frantic movement behind him, as Sherlock burst out of his chair and moved swiftly into a fighting stance. John looked over his shoulder to see Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway, mouth agape. "Sherlock?" Greg said hesitantly, afraid to make any sudden movement. "OK then?"

Sherlock was visibly shaken but regrouped quickly. "Of course," he snapped. "You - I thought…" he shook his head. "Nothing. Why are you here?"

"And good morning to you too, sunshine," said Greg snarkily. But then his face dropped; it was clear this wasn't good news. "I wanted to come and tell you myself, so I came here before heading to the scene." He paused. "We have a body."


	17. For many a heart wi' this we broke

_"We have a body."_

Under normal circumstances, Greg's announcement would have led immediately to a swirl of dressing gown and a bustle to get dressed and out the door. John had actually started moving towards the loo to get himself ready when he realized Sherlock hadn't moved.

He turned back to see Sherlock standing very still, hands clasped together in a way John recognized—the way he held them to keep them from shaking.

"What color hair?" Sherlock asked, in a thin, reedy voice.

Greg looked briefly at the photo Donovan had sent to his mobile. "Dark…" he began.

John just had time to grab Sherlock arms as he swayed and his knees gave out. He shoved Sherlock quickly into his chair while Greg moved forward in alarm. John gently pushed Sherlock's head down between his shaking knees, holding pressure on to keep him down. He crouched down beside him while Greg punched a number and spoke quickly to Donovan on his phone.

Greg's relieved face eased the vise around John's heart. Greg crouched down by Sherlock as well and put his hand on one thin shoulder. "It's not her, Lock. It's not. We're pretty sure it's the Aldridge girl, based on the skin tone."

Sherlock gave a shuddering breath and lifted his head just enough to put his face in his hands. He made no move to rise.

John met Greg's eyes over the top of the detective's curly head. "Coffee, yeah? Strong. Lots of sugar in his." Greg rose with a grunt and moved towards the kitchen. "On it," he muttered.

Ten minutes passed, in a tense quiet. Sherlock unwound himself from his knees when presented with the coffee cup, but never raised his eyes. John hovered a bit before he realized he was probably doing more harm than good, and went off to get dressed, giving Greg a "you're in charge" look as he left. Greg looked helplessly after him, aware that he hadn't the faintest idea what to say or do if Sherlock came further unraveled.

Thankfully for all concerned, he didn't. At the five-minute mark, he slowly sat up, ran his hands fretfully through his hair, and rose, going silently into the bedroom to dress. By the time he came out, ten minutes later, it was clear that this was going to be one of those Times of Which We Do Not Speak. He took the toast John handed him without comment and chewed as they all trotted down the stairs.

The crime scene, if you could call it that, was a vacant office suite in a newish building on the outskirts of north London. It was clear even to John that Andrea Aldridge hadn't died in this office. The room was spotless—new, untouched carpeting, walls that still smelled faintly of paint. The body was lying on a plain white bedsheet, the kind often used in nicer hotels; rather posh, in fact.

Andrea didn't look like she was asleep. Death was very obvious—slightly discolored skin here and there, and a grossly distended abdomen that contrasted sharply with the rest of her slender frame. While John crouched carefully, trying to pick up a possible time and cause of death, Sherlock flitted in circles, muttering to himself as he observed.

"She had been restrained before death—tiny scrape marks on her wrists, but not consistent with tying, more like soft medical restraints used in a hospital setting," he began. "She was carefully arranged here, not just thrown down and left. She had been cared for; the body is clean, as is the hair, but there's a slight odor of vomit. That and the obvious distention implies some sort of lethal toxin, but that makes little sense—why poison someone you've already abducted and secured control of? Poison is more often a hidden weapon." All of this came at the speed of a freight train; less Sherlock imparting information than Sherlock thinking aloud. He abruptly turned to John. "What about time of death?"

John stood and backed away from the body a bit. "That's difficult to tell. We know she's only been missing four days, but it doesn't seem likely to me that she's been dead more than a day, if that. The abdominal distention is confusing; it's not possible that it's from decomposition. Maybe whatever toxin killed her?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and John nodded. "Yes, I agree with you—most likely a toxin of some kind. I don't see any evidence of physical injury, beyond a number of needle marks on her thighs and a mark where she had an IV cannula, most likely. Maybe the poisoning was accidental? Some sort of medical experiment gone wrong?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "That's a possibility. But there's large amounts of money involved somehow. The sheet she is lying on retails for over £100—not the kind of thing you'll find in a back-room clinic or NHS facility, certainly. And what kind of illicit medical experimenter washes the hair of their guinea pigs with sandalwood shampoo that costs at least half that much as well?"

And trust Sherlock to know the cost of sheets—God knows, the ones on his bed made this one look cheap, judging by what John had seen when it was his turn to do the laundry at Baker Street. And to identify expensive shampoo by scent. Of course.

Sherlock turned at last to Lestrade, hovering near the doorway, notebook in hand. "We're done here. Have Molly do the autopsy—I'll follow the body over and sit in. And I'll want to see the fiber evidence on anything your lot picks up, not that I think there will be much. Someone was clearly very careful when they brought the body in. I can't be the only one who noticed there are no CCTV cameras operating on this street."

The autopsy was one of the most uncomfortable John had ever been present for. Someone had obviously told Molly of Sherlock's personal involvement with this case, and she was clearly agonizing over what to say. Sherlock, observing her stammering and deducing the cause, finally told her bluntly to "stop dancing on eggshells and do your job." Then he withdrew into a glowering, brittle silence while Molly flushed and gave John a helpless shrug.

Sherlock hovered at the foot of the autopsy table like an overlarge bat, his coat still wrapped protectively around him. Periodically Molly would pull off fluid or tissue specimens, which Sherlock would snatch and take to the microscope himself, muttering as he worked. A larger group of samples would take longer, in-depth processing; these she handed to John, who carried them down the hall to the waiting technicians.

Molly finally stepped away from the body, covered it carefully with a waiting sheet, and snapped off her gloves. "Well," she said, her body language clearly reluctant. "I'm afraid this one will require the lab work to confirm." Sherlock, still standing behind the microscope, was listening intently. When she didn't continue, he raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"I know, I know," she said. "I know what I found, the things that killed her, or at least helped kill her. Without the full blood and tissue scans, though, I don't know what they _mean_ —I've never seen a death quite like this." She flipped open her charts and began working through the results.

"To begin with, no evidence of any physical injury. No sexual assault or evidence of activity, though I do see what looks like speculum scrapes. Body cavity distended with fluid—ascites, though no evidence of cancer anywhere. Minimal decomposition—I'd say she's been dead no more than 12 hours. Extensive fluid in the lungs, though not enough to kill her. Blood abnormally thick, and kidneys clearly damaged—I suspect she was in full kidney failure, though her health records from her parents show no evidence of past disease. And oddest of all, a full ovarian rupture with extensive bleeding, though again, not enough to kill her." She stopped and swallowed. "She would have been in a great deal of pain."

"So this was a poisoning of some kind?" John asked, not having missed Sherlock's almost imperceptible flinch at that last statement.

"Not one I've ever seen," Molly answered. "At this point all we can do is wait for the toxicology and tissue results. I've told the lab this is top priority—it should only be a couple of hours, for everything but the items they have to culture." She hesitated, then looked earnestly at Sherlock. 'I'm so sorry. I hope you find her."

John could see Sherlock struggle not to lash out, his normal reaction to emotional upheaval. But this was Molly, who held a special place in Sherlock's life. And for Molly, Sherlock made an effort not to, well, be himself, more often than not. He finally lowered his head, muttered "thank you" under his breath, and stalked out of the morgue without looking back. And John, of course, sighed, thanked Molly as well, and followed.

It was not a good day. Rather than Baker Street, they returned to the Yard to await the lab results, apparently because Sherlock needed a wider pool of people to insult. He stalked from Lestrade's office to the conference room (where a larger version of Sherlock's evidence wall had been established) annihilating anyone unlucky enough to cross his path. After the second time Sherlock cornered someone and verbally stripped them of their skin, for no greater sin than not having any additional, useful information, Greg hauled him bodily back into the conference room and ordered him to stay, or be removed from the building. Sherlock stalked over to the windows and gave both Greg and John his back, arms wrapped tightly around his torso. John met Greg's eyes and shared a commiserating look, and they left him alone while John went to secure more bad coffee.

By the time Molly showed up (and John, later, thanked her profusely for coming in person), John and Greg were both eying Sherlock like an unexploded bomb. He had begun pacing again, arms behind his back and fingers twitching restlessly. He pounced on Molly like a predator as she walked in. "What do you have?" he snapped.

Molly had recovered a bit of her spine in the last few hours, though, and was having none of this. "Sit down and I'll tell you," she said, and waited through his reflexive glare before he finally, reluctantly, flounced to a chair, waving his hands for her to continue.

"It's still very strange," she began. "I told you earlier I thought her kidneys had failed—they had, and that probably figured heavily in her death. But she also had all kinds of anomalies in her blood—hormone levels were off the charts, and just…wrong. She actually had a low level of HCG—the pregnancy hormone- in her blood, but was definitely not pregnant. In the end, the thickened blood apparently caused a small clot in her brain, so she'd had a stroke. That, combined with the kidney failure…her heart just gave out."

Sherlock was looking at the papers she'd slid across the table, reading the disastrous cascade of ills that had killed a perfectly healthy young girl in a matter of days. He was still reading, intense focus clear on his face, when a PC came into the room and handed Greg Lestrade a folder. Sherlock didn't react, but John, seeing Greg's face, did. "What now?" he asked, as Sherlock's head came up at his tone.

"It's another one," Greg said soberly.

Ten minutes later the newest victim's photo and information had been added to the evidence wall. Daisy Owyeo was 18, the youngest victim yet. First-year student at the Royal Academy of Music, and already a force to be reckoned with on the international piano competition stage. Like the others, a striking girl, with cafe au lait skin and unexpected blue eyes. Father a diplomat from Ghana, mother an Irish translator employed by the Diplomatic Service. She'd gotten a call yesterday evening from someone at the school, moving her standard practice slot to a different room and time. She never came home.

John looked at the picture, realizing what had been tickling at the back of his brain since he first saw it. "She looks like Andrea," he said slowly.

Greg looked at him questioningly. "Yeah?" he said.

"Well, it's just a bit unlikely, isn't it?" John continued. "I mean, how many girls with that genetic mix are there? The darker skin tone with the very light eyes? It's really a pretty rare combination. Dark eyes are usually dominant, genetically speaking."

Sherlock suddenly stopped all movement and stared as well. "There's another component here that we have all missed," he said suddenly. "We've been working all this time to establish commonality, and have come up empty, beyond the obvious—uni students, female. But clearly we _do_ recognize it—how _stupid_ of me not to have realized it before!" He spun on Greg, eyes intent. "How many missing girls are reported in the greater London area in the course of any given week? Ten? Twenty?" Greg nodded, not sure where he was going with this. "Yet earlier this week, Donovan came in with a folder and immediately announced that we 'had another one'—and the same thing happened today, just now. So my question, Inspector— _how did they know_?"

And Greg opened his mouth, and closed it, and blinked. Because of course, Sherlock was right, and it had been right there all along, with none of them seeing it.

John said it aloud, since someone needed to. "They're all exceptional in some way. Noticeably so—physically attractive, all very young and healthy, and each with some sort of world-class talent. Maths, dance, art, music. Almost like someone is shopping for the best, for lack of a better term. And this new girl, being so similar to Andrea—they're shopping for something very specific. Like she's a replacement for Andrea."

Sherlock abruptly stood, rocketing off into pacing again while searching furiously on his phone. "Shopping, shopping, shopping." And suddenly he stopped and looked over at Molly, still hovering in the corner. "Molly. Tell me what conditions could cause hormonal disruptions like the ones you found in Ms. Aldridge."

Molly blinked but complied, thinking as she spoke. "Well…some autoimmune disorders, none of which she had. Polycystic ovarian syndrome, but again, no. Perhaps a pituitary issue." She paused, then continued slowly. "And, I guess it's not really relevant here, but if she'd been undergoing some sort of fertility treatment…"

" _Oh_!" Sherlock suddenly gasped. He whipped out his phone, punched one speed-dial button, and waited impatiently. When an indistinct voice answered, he immediately began rattling off his requests. "Mycroft. We need to find records of extensive purchases consistent with the establishment of a commercial-class embryology laboratory. No NHS facilities, private only. It will be in the larger London area, almost certainly in an upper-echelon physical facility. Purchases made within the last six months, most likely, though we can go further back if we come up empty. There will also be purchases for the furnishing of the medical facility itself, and very high-end ones at that, but those are less critical and could be more easily concealed, so let's start with what we know they _must_ have, given the limited number of suppliers for that kind of equipment. Check import licenses as well—chances are not all of the equipment would have been manufactured in this country." More undecipherable speech on the other end of the line, and Sherlock hung up without a goodbye.

He put away his phone, to be met with the stares of the other people in the room. "Oh, honestly," he breathed. "It's obvious now, isn't it?" He looked from one to the other as they shook their heads.

Finally, he nodded and began. "In retrospect it's clear what's happening. The girls are all in perfect health, and at the peak of their fertility. They are all _exceptional_ —smart, pretty and talented. And they would, presumably, produce similarly-gifted children. What more could a prospective parent ask for? In this case, very, very wealthy prospective parents, who are unwilling or unable to secure a child through conventional fertility treatments and physicians."

"So they're, what, surrogates?" asked John.

Sherlock shook his head. "Highly unlikely. For one thing, there's not enough money in it—each girl would be only available for one child at a time, and the 'waiting period' is almost a year. Eggs, though—a woman has millions of potential eggs at birth, and under the right circumstances can produce dozens of them for potential parents every month. And given the selectivity of the abductors, I suspect that our culprits are willing to provide specific eggs that approximate physical characteristics requested by their clients."

He stopped and held up his phone, opened to a website on fertility treatments. "But the drugs used to force the body into readying large numbers of eggs are not without their hazards. And very rarely, some women will develop life-threatening complications, which must be addressed quickly and decisively. In this case, perhaps inexperience, or just plain greed, made them delay treatment for Ms. Aldridge. And when it was clear she was dying, they were afraid to take her to a real hospital for fear of exposure."

"That's just…horrible," said John.

Sherlock grimaced. "Hardly more horrible than kidnapping the girls in the first place." He paused and looked momentarily distressed before composing his face once more. "Under the circumstances, it's clear they would never be able to release any of the girls. It also explains why no ransom notes were received." He looked over at Greg. "But there is good news here. This kind of thing requires very specific, and very expensive, technology, and that equipment evolves at a very rapid pace. An operation like this would want the newest and best, if only so they could show it off to their potential clients. And purchases of that kind of leave a trail, a trail we can follow." And for the first time in days, his eyes glowed with excitement. "We can _find_ them."


	18. Can darkness round Creation throw

In the end, identifying the possible locations was surprisingly easy—well, surprising to John, anyway. Two hours after that quick phone conversation with Mycroft, John was amazed to look up and see the Great Man himself walking into the conference room, folder in hand. He ignored Sherlock's instant grabby-hands motion and dropped the papers in the middle of the conference table.

"There are three possibilities," he announced, directing his speech primarily to Greg Lestrade, in a very finely-tuned motion towards professional courtesy. John was suddenly reminded of the fact that these two men had had an alliance of sorts for a number of years now. There was no question but that Mycroft Holmes recognized the value of what Greg had offered his brother over that time period.

He picked up the topmost paper and handed it to Greg. "I have ranked them in order of probability. They have all made high-dollar purchases of scientific equipment in the assigned period, but that particular location has elements to its ownership that invite suspicion. There are several shell companies involved, for no particular reason other than to obfuscate the involvement of the actual active principals." He finally looked over at Sherlock, who was now glowering like a frustrated toddler. "Interestingly enough, one of those principals is an old acquaintance of yours—Allan Cumberland."

John didn't recognize the name, and looking over at Greg it was clear he was in the dark as well. Sherlock, though, abruptly went very pale, before standing up and beginning to pace rapidly. "Cumberland is clearly just the money here," he finally said. "He has no medical background; no background in anything, really, except being a well-heeled trust fund baby."

"A well-heeled trust fund baby who is also, in all likelihood, both a sadist and a psychopath," Mycroft said quietly. He looked over at John and Greg, both still wondering what, exactly, was going on here. All three men looked over at Sherlock, who, predictably enough, completely ignored them while poring through the material in the folder. Mycroft finally sighed and gave in.

"Allan Cumberland," he began, smoothing down his jacket and sitting in one of the uncomfortable conference room chairs. "Heir to a shipping fortune. Educated at Eton and Cambridge, though he never graduated from the latter. He ran in a set that included Sebastian Wilkes and a few other young men of a similar disposition." He looked over at his brother and cleared his throat. "He was also one of Sherlock's chief tormentors at Cambridge."

John and Greg swiveled their eyes over to Sherlock, who, amazingly, did _not_ fly into a rage. "Oh, please," the detective said derisively. "I was an undersized 16-year-old who had no idea that genius was a criminal offense at uni. My 'tormentors', as you call it, consisted of the bulk of the student body."

"Yes," Mycroft said smoothly. "But only one beat you to the point where you were unconscious for two days."

"The fuck?" interjected Lestrade, before he could rein in his mouth. "And how exactly is he still walking around free? Did you report it at the time?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Mycroft beat him to it. "We did, once we found someone who could tell us who was responsible. My parents and I went to the university administrators as well as the police. The former, unlikely though it may seem, were more effective than the latter. Cumberland's family had enough influence to get the assault charges dropped. But the Holmes name was much more effective at Cambridge than Cumberland's—we were at least able to see that Cumberland was permanently sent down, in exchange for not bringing a civil action against the university. It turned out, you see, that Cumberland had been reported for similar offenses twice before, but the university failed to take any action."

"And you let it go at that?" John said skeptically, while Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Not quite," Mycroft said smugly, looking idly down at his hands. "The following year Cumberland's father was the subject of a government investigation into racketeering and immigration violations. The legal expenses for his defense ran, I believe, somewhere north of two million pounds. He didn't go to prison, sadly, but he paid a fine that represented nearly 20% of his net worth."

"And Allan himself was tragically mugged while out for the evening in London," Sherlock added drily. "Unfortunately, the culprits were never identified. He spent two weeks in hospital."

"Jesus," said Greg. "Remind me never to piss you off, Mycroft." Mycroft gave him a serene smile.

Sherlock had finally reached his limit with all of this. "I think that's enough of this _fascinating_ ancient history, don't you think? Unless you're in the mood to start dragging out baby pictures."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I hardly think that having your fellow investigators know the nature of their opponent lacks value, brother mine."

Sherlock made a rude noise. "I sincerely doubt that Allan Cumberland would deign to dirty his hands in this business—he's much more likely to be a silent partner. Receiving money without expending any effort—much more his style. And in the end, it doesn't matter either way. Our only objective is to find the girls, and if this building represents the best opportunity for that, I suggest we focus less on personalities and more on building plans."

Neither John nor Greg could argue with that, certainly.

By the end of the hour they had their plans in place. Mycroft had left after delivering his packet of information (though not without a few additional brotherly jibes back and forth—John figured this was the Holmes version of affection. He'd only start to worry if weapons were drawn). John, Greg and Donovan starting drawing up plans and assigning troops to go after all three targets; while certainly they agreed with Mycroft's assessment of which was the most promising (how could they dare otherwise?) that didn't mean they could afford to ignore the other two. Sherlock busied himself with a variety of internet searches on the principals Mycroft had identified, as well as the plans of all three buildings.

Donovan was dispatched to secure court orders to allow searches of all three targets, to Sherlock's vocal disdain. Sherlock was becoming increasingly restless, which was never a good thing—items at Baker Street tended to mysteriously explode under those conditions, and people at the Yard would find themselves stripped naked, figuratively speaking, if they were unlucky enough to cross his path. John, well-tuned to the detective's moods, decided to find a distraction. He headed off to the coffee shop down the street from the Yard, getting requests from both Sherlock and Lestrade ("Hot cider and chocolate croissants," barked Sherlock. "And don't let them give you the ones left over from this morning.")

John was standing in line at the coffee shop when he realized he'd forgotten to ask Lestrade what he wanted in his coffee. When he reached into his pocket for his phone, though, he was annoyed to find he'd forgotten that as well—it was presumably still sitting in the conference room. He settled for ordering the coffee black, and had the staff put a variety of flavorings, sugar and cream in the bag with Sherlock's croissants.

When he got back to the yard he headed directly to the conference room, but was surprised to encounter Lestrade in the hallway by himself. He held the coffee and the bag up and nodded towards the room, and Greg trailed along behind. When he pushed the door open, though, he was surprised to find the room empty. "Where's Sherlock?" John asked, putting the drinks and pastries on the table.

"Beats me," said Greg. "The loo, maybe. Nothing doing at the moment, you know—Donovan called a bit ago and said it'll be another half-hour for the court orders. Sherlock was getting pretty bolshie about it, but there's nothing I can do."

John sat down and pulled out one of the croissants while taking a sip of his coffee. He noticed his phone sitting on the window ledge, though, and got up to retrieve it. He settled back down in the chair and was about to return to his coffee when he noticed a text notification. What he read made him curse, drop the pastry, and instantly attempt to call Sherlock, who, predictably enough, didn't answer.

Greg picked up on the urgency immediately. "What? What's happened?" he asked, as John stood and jerked his jacket back on. John held the phone up for him.

 _ **I have intelligence that indicates movement at the target location, including large trucks and at least one private ambulance. No CCTV available. MH**_

It was painfully obvious that Sherlock had received the same message, most likely twenty minutes before. Greg swore and howled for a car and driver as they both pelted out the door.

The cabbie made very good time, and Sherlock was happy to supply the extra twenty quid he'd promised if the man was willing to run a few lights on the way. He had the man stop up the block from the building, if only so he could evaluate the movements in and out and ascertain if Mycroft's intelligence had anything to do with their suspects.

He hovered at the corner of a building across the street and simply observed for a minute or two. It was immediately apparent that this was indeed relevant: two ambulances were idling by the front doorway, and a moving crew had just rolled a large and very expensive microscope to a waiting van equipped with a lift platform. A large number of men in khaki jumpsuits milled about loading a variety of materials, high-end furniture and the like, into a semi-trailer, while two men in pale blue jackets, holding clipboards, tried to keep track of what went where. The blue-jacketed men were likely part of the staff of Cumberland's operation. The building had a modern silver sculpture of an infinity symbol on the front driveway, and the blue jackets had matching logos on the front pocket.

Sherlock quickly slid around the rear of the building. The door, unfortunately, was electronically locked and alarmed—a surprising level of security for what purported to be a high-end minor surgical clinic, though consistent with the building plans Mycroft had supplied. It was annoying, since it meant he was going to have to find an alternate mode of entry. He soon identified a potential vulnerability—one of the furniture vans was parked along the side of the building, awaiting its turn at loading. In the meantime, however, the driver had wandered off and left the truck unlocked. And sitting on the passenger seat was one of the khaki jumpsuits.

It wasn't ideal. The jumpsuit was laughably big around the midsection, but almost three inches too short in the legs. It would have to do, though. Sherlock crept around the far side of the idling truck until he encountered a group of khaki-clad men. Then he attached himself to the rear of the group and strode confidently into the building.

The khaki suit proved to be a mixed blessing. It had certainly ensured a painless entry into the building. But it also constrained Sherlock's movements; he had to appear as if he were working, and in general that meant staying close to at least one other worker. After making one trip out to the truck (helping to carry a conference table, with three other men) he came back into the building and darted into the loo, where he quickly stripped off the jumpsuit and emerged in his normal black suit.

He followed his usual procedure in these instances—appearing to have Somewhere To Go was usually the very best of disguises—and moved busily into the less-frequented hallways, cautiously trying doors as he went. Most, unfortunately, had electronic locks on them that he had neither the time nor equipment to subvert. He needed to either find a control panel or acquire a keycard. He was painfully aware of the passage of time—the longer he had to wander uselessly around the building, the more likely it was that Cumberland's people would evacuate the girls and move them God knew where.

In the end Sherlock decided to take the direct approach, even if it reduced the amount of free time he was likely to have before discovery. He headed back towards the more populated areas of the building and looked for a victim—someone isolated from other people, and unlikely to put up much of a fight.

His chosen donor selected, he moved quickly back into the side corridor and waited for the victim to approach. The slight, weedy-looking man, perhaps 45 and paunchy, let out a wheezy squeal as Sherlock grabbed him abruptly about the throat and dragged him into the empty washroom. "I don't especially want to hurt you, but I'm perfectly willing to do so if necessary," Sherlock said in an arctic voice. "If you make a sound when I let go of your throat I will do so. Do you understand?"

The victim nodded frantically, and Sherlock let go of his throat while maintaining a firm grip on his shoulder. "Give me your badge," he commanded. "Then take off your clothes, down to your vest and pants." The man stared. " _Quickly_ ," Sherlock snapped, and the men starting ripping at his jacket and shirt.

Sherlock pocketed the man's badge and powder blue jacket—it fit very poorly, so he would have to stay away from other people as much as possible. Then he improvised bindings by tearing the man's shirt into strips, and stuffed a sock in his mouth. He dragged his wriggling victim into a shower stall in a side room—apparently this was an on-call facility as well as a toilet—and pulled the stall door closed.

Back in the hallway, he immediately pulled out the badge and started opening doors. There were no markings at all—every door looked like every other door, and might open onto a patient room (where a hospital cot was surrounded by the trappings of an opulent hotel suite), or a conference room, or an office. He soon realized, though, that what appeared to be decorative markings on the floor were in fact markers, or trails. Patient rooms had blue lines that trailed away from the myriad colors lining the hallway, offices were yellow, storage rooms red, and conference rooms white. He fought the temptation to investigate the offices—it would be very valuable to find an unattended computer. But he was too aware of the passage of time—Nicky was still in this building somewhere, but who knew for how long?

He was becoming increasingly frustrated by the procession of empty rooms, and had progressed to a slash-and-dash approach: trot up to the doorway (patient rooms only at this point), slip the card through, shove the door open and take one quick look, then move on. He was somewhat concerned when he heard footsteps somewhere near, but he couldn't afford to stop his increasingly frantic search. At the last moment, as a group of at least three men came up behind him, going by the sound, he straightened up and began walking purposefully but quickly towards the upcoming right-hand corridor, planning on taking to his heels as soon as they were out of sight and looping back.

This was not as successful as he would have hoped. Just as he started moving away, one of the men spoke up. "Hello? Who's that?" He kept his face averted and continued moving forward, at which point one of the men—there were definitely three—sped up and trotted towards him. Sherlock immediately changed tactics.

Coming to a stop, he turned around and viewed his pursuers—a man in one of the blue jackets and two unfortunately professional-looking guards. He gave them a harassed look and spoke with a sigh and a Bristol accent. "I'm Travers. I'm supposed to be signing off on the gas monitors in the operating theatre right now." He looked pointedly down at the hand on his arm, belonging to Guard No. 1.

Blue Jacket was having none of it. "No you're not. I don't know who the fuck you are, but we don't have anyone named 'Travers', and your bloody jacket doesn't fit. Let me see your badge." He held out an imperious hand. And Sherlock, with a mental sigh, reached out towards it, but instead of holding out the badge, he grasped the wrist, flipped it, broke it, kicked the man firmly in the balls on the way to grappling with Guard No. 1. He moved in, smoothly, quickly—the man was trained but not as good as Sherlock, nor fast enough, and he slapped his hands hard, hard, over both ears to rupture the eardrums while bringing up a strong knee to the groin, and he moved quickly out of range before moving back in to finish it, and-

Guard No. 2 hauled out his Taser and pulled the trigger.

Sherlock dropped like a stone, every muscle seizing. He had bitten his tongue and blood flowed out, past his clenched teeth and onto his shirt. He could barely breathe, his diaphragm seizing along with every other muscle. Guard No. 2 helped Guard No. 1 up. Guard No. 1 then wrenched his stiff arms behind his back and secured his wrists with zip ties, and then kicked him in the side in retribution before stepping to a panel on the wall and punching a button. Lights began to strobe in the hallway, though no sirens went off. Sherlock's muscles were beginning to unclench, though the muscle exhaustion he felt was like he had just climbed Mount Everest while carrying a Sherpa on his back.

He was aware of a certain amount of confusion and vertigo—not severe, but then he _was_ lying on the ground. He wasn't sure he could get up at this point without help. Hurrying footsteps came up the hallway and stopped near him, while Blue Jacket and Guards 1. and 2. stuttered out their report. "Flip him over," came an oddly familiar voice. Guard No. 1 grabbed him by the shoulders and dropped him on top of his cuffed hands, and he found himself looking into the astounded face of Allan Cumberland.

Cumberland reached over, grasped his chin, then shoved it away and gave an incredulous chuckle. "My God," he drawled, "it's Ickle Sherlock."

Cumberland directed the guards to drag Sherlock down the corridor until they reached a large, opulent office that still contained furniture. They hauled him inside and roughly dumped him on the floor. Cumberland then dismissed the guards, pulled the door closed, and slid a chair over to where Sherlock huddled, trying to keep his weight off his cuffed hands.

"Well," he began. "I can honestly say I didn't expect this. Though in retrospect it does make sense—I knew someone had been trolling through our electronic records; hence this quick removal. But I see now that Mycroft Holmes would be a likely candidate for that. And of course, he would have enlisted his dear baby brother to make a 'hands-on' investigation."

He stood abruptly, moved over and gave Sherlock a hard, quick kick to the stomach, leaving him wheezing in pain. Then he grabbed his tied wrists and hauled him over to the closed door, where a large coat-hook projected from the back. He reached out and unbuckled Sherlock's belt, at which point Sherlock decided to make a serious effort to break free, kicking out with both feet as he landed once again on his now-throbbing hands. Cumberland deftly sidestepped and cuffed Sherlock hard enough on the temple that his vision greyed momentarily. Then he grabbed Sherlock's belt again and slid it free of the belt loops. "Relax," he grunted. "I have no designs on your virtue. At least not right now." Then he looped the belt through Sherlock's tethered arms, snaked the end of the belt over the hook, and then pulled Sherlock up by the belt until he could re-buckle it. Sherlock was now essentially anchored to the door by his pinioned wrists, his arms and shoulders painfully wrenched upwards to the point where breathing was difficult.

"Now then," said Cumberland cheerfully. "You know, this is like a little gift just for me. I always wanted another opportunity to beat the crap out of you, especially after your fucking family ruined my life. My father disowned me—did you know that?"

Sherlock sneered. "It's amazing how little things change. You only feel brave enough to attack when your opponent isn't able to respond in kind. But you no longer have 5 inches and 5 stone on me, so you have to work a little harder at it." He looked Cumberland up and down and clearly found him lacking. "Take me down from here and we'll make it a fair fight. Although—I guess to make it really even, you can leave my hands tied behind my back."

Cumberland threw back his head and gave a great hoot of laughter—but then he brought up his hand and backhanded Sherlock full-force across the face. "You haven't changed a bit either—I remember that tongue," He leaned in close, murmuring in Sherlock's ear. "But here's the thing, you little prick. I don't care about a fair fight. Your brother was right in one thing he said of me. I am indeed a sadist, and this is one of my very _favorite_ activities. The fact that it's you is just icing on the cake."

While Sherlock was still trying to catch his breath, Cumberland walked over to the desk and picked up a cricket bat that was standing against the side. He passed it from hand to hand thoughtfully. "Dr. Patel is a great fan of cricket, it's very convenient—he goes to practice several times a week directly from his officer here, so it's always around." And he brought it whistling around to connect with Sherlock's ribs.

"So now," he said, while Sherlock gasped for breath and tried to compartmentalize the pain, "here's how things will go. I'm going to get as much enjoyment as I can out of you—not as long as I'd like, since the clock is ticking. And then I'm going to fucking _kill_ you, and then I, and my money, and our research subjects, will climb on a plane and never have to think about you, or your fucking brother, again." And the bat came swooping down again, this time across Sherlock's left shin.

"Mycroft will kill you this time. Personally," Sherlock gritted out. At which point the bat came towards him again, this time connecting with his head, and he lost all interest in the proceedings.

Sherlock woke slowly, aware only that he was swimming in a sea of pain. Cumberland had evidently reverted to fists after the cricket bat inconveniently rendered Sherlock unconscious—he felt twinges from his ribs and face in areas the bat hadn't touched. One ear felt like it was bleeding still. Probably left here not long ago, then. He checked quickly—his mobile was gone, so no way to tell the time and no way to contact John or Lestrade.

That was a question—where was "here"? He opened his eyes briefly before quickly closing them in dismay. His vision was blurry—yet another concussion, apparently. John would be very displeased. His other senses were problematic as well—apparently a side effect of Tasering, for him, was a ramping up of his hypersensitivity. While he normally had iron control over his inconvenient reactions, he was currently experiencing symptoms he hadn't felt in years—his clothing felt like sandpaper, the slight aural hum of electronic equipment was a maddening itch, and the combined smells of chemicals, paint and cleansers were making him nauseous. Keeping his eyes closed seemed best—if his other senses were this agitated, sight might tip him over the edge, and he simply could not afford a meltdown here and now.

Freeing his hands was the first order of business. He managed, though not without a gasp or two, to force his legs between his pinioned arms and bring his hands around to the front of his body. He did not enjoy the process; his shoulders and upper arms had not liked their suspension from the coat hook, and his hands were very swollen. He laid still and breathed until he could manage the pain, then made the quick snapping motion to break the zip ties. The shrieking in his wrists forced a small cry from his lips, and he was startled to suddenly hear movement from his right, and a shocked voice say " _Locket?_ "

In the end, he was going to have to open his eyes—there was no other way to get them both clear of this. And to be truthful, Sherlock realized that he needed to _see_ her, on a visceral level. Because in a hidden part of his heart, he had come to believe that he would never see her alive again. But he couldn't do that quite yet, not and stay in control of himself.

He made his queasy way across the room, staggering a bit and holding one arm in front to navigate past any obstacles, while Nicky sobbed. He had to briefly stop halfway across—it was either that or vomit. But after a bit he was able to subdue the impulse and continue. When he reached the cot—it must be a cot- she grabbed onto his shoulders with frantic strength, and he allowed it, leaning against the hospital bed and relaxing slightly. But she quickly subsided into stroking the side of his face, and he had to step away, his breath stuttering. He heard her gasp and tried to explain.

"Nicky. Do you remember when you were small, and I would sometimes have trouble with being touched, or touching things? And how I had to stop seeing and hearing so much?"

He heard her sniff, and she answered in a voice that shook only a little. "When you would worry about the Red Zone?" she asked. He could hear her trying to calm her breathing—it made him feel very proud of her, under the circumstances. "Is that—are you having a Red Zone? Is that why you're all bloody, and you can't open your eyes? What can I do? I can't get out of the bed by myself, Locket. They did some sort of surgery on me this morning, I just woke up, and I'm all dizzy."

Sherlock had to stifle his immediate reaction to that. Concern would do nothing—he needed to get them out, and quickly. "No, it's not that bad." _Not yet_ , a distant voice said inside his head. "But if you're going to touch me, it can't be soft, and it can't be quick. If it's a problem I'll tell you, and you must let go at once."

"OK," she said gravely. "But how can we get out? The doors latch by themselves, and you can't open either side without a badge. And they're moving us somewhere today—the other girls are already gone, and it's only poor Daisy and me left."

Oh, that was bad. He could, if they were lucky, manage to escape with Nicky, even in this condition. But a second girl—

"Where is Daisy? And why 'poor' Daisy?" he asked carefully.

Nicky hiccupped on a sob, not as calm as she was earlier. "She's next door—they have her on a lot of machines. She's really sick—the medicine… it's just like Andrea." Sherlock could hear her erratic breathing as she tried not to cry. She knew how it had always annoyed him.

He quickly went through some of his old centering exercises, forcing down the building agitation under his skin, forcing calm. Then he made himself open his eyes.

He was immediately bludgeoned with a tidal wave of overwhelming input. _CotsheetsidetablesheetssheetslightmonitorlightYELLOWYELLOWYELLOWcontrolpanelcotNickylightREDsinktapslightYELLOWYELLOWYELLOW—_ he quickly snapped his eyes back shut and breathed and shook. He hadn't been this bad since he was 20.

He forced down the reaction ruthlessly again. Then he worked carefully through the exercises again, and once again, before he opened his eyes, and this time focused his attention solely on the cot before very slowly moving his vision to the rest of the room, a little at a time. A limited focus sometimes worked, at least in the short term.

Nicky was huddled in the center of a state-of the-art hospital bed, on a par with the rest of the room, which gleamed with a host of sophisticated monitoring and surgical equipment. This side of the large room was apparently used as a recovery area, but the middle had an operating table and all of the expected accoutrements.

Nicky, thankfully, looked well, aside from a paleness that was undoubtedly a combination of fear and anesthesia reaction. She still had an IV cannula in her arm but was otherwise free of equipment. And she was now looking at him with deep concern. "Locket, you're really hurt, aren't you?"

He gave what he hoped was a reassuring look, while forcing down another mild wave of nausea. "It looks much worse than it is." Well, except for the hypersensitivity, that was probably true. "But we have to get out of here, and I need to decide how we do that. I need to know about Daisy—can she be moved?"

Nicky shivered. "I don't think so. I heard the nurse say they were putting her on a breathing machine."

Sherlock tried to keep his reaction off his face. "Then I think you and I must go, and we'll send in help for her once we're outside." He turned his back on her and starting to carefully examine the room as a whole. "I need you to not speak for a bit, Nick. Can you do that? And remember not to touch me?"

"I can do that," she said stoutly. And she did.

The answer came quickly, once he was able to detach himself from his cascading physical reactions. As he mentally ran back through the building specifications Mycroft had supplied, the answer was clear. His eyes popped back open, and he turned back to Nicky.

"Got it," he said. "We'll set the building on fire."

It was to Nicky's eternal credit that she didn't argue with him.

The plan _should_ work. Sherlock knew that. The only potential problem would be if Cumberland had put some sort of guard on the back door. But they had to take the chance. He explained things to Nicky as best he could—his sensory issues were pressing hard enough that speech was difficult to navigate at present. Her only request was that they go first and tell Daisy what was happening, so she wouldn't be frightened.

Of course they both knew that Daisy, by all accounts, would never even know they were there. But he dutifully unhooked Nicky from her cannula, covered the small wound with a plaster from the bedside table, and guided her with an arm around her waist to a door on the far end of the operating theatre. This door wasn't locked or protected—it led to a simple high-level patient room, with much more sophisticated equipment than the glorified hotel rooms offered the normal patients.

Daisy lay motionless on the cot. The only sound or movement came from the respirator hooked to her mouth. She was noticeably swollen, much like Andrea had been, and a catheter bag with a small amount of dark brown urine was hooked to the side of the bed. She was clearly gravely ill.

Nicky stiffened at his side. "Daisy? Can you hear me?" She waited a beat, then asked again. "Daisy?" Nicky gave a shaky sob at the continued silence, but gathered herself up immediately. "Daisy, we have to leave now. We can't take you like… we have to bring back help. There'll be a loud noise and some smoke, but it's OK. They'll be back for you." She paused, shuddered again. Then softly, "I'm really sorry." And she nudged Sherlock and turned back towards the main operating theatre.

In theory this should be easy. Find something flammable, strike a match, and voila! Instant fire. In practice there were other considerations.

To begin with, unlike most modern hospitals, this glossy version didn't use paper-based sheets or gowns—everything was high-end cloth. There were a host of plastic items that would certainly burn, but would also potentially give off a high volume of potentially toxic smoke that he and Nicky would have to breathe in. There was gauze, though not a great quantity—many of the supplies had clearly already been boxed and removed. And they ideally needed something that would burn slowly but consistently. They didn't want to accidentally immolate themselves before the doors opened.

Beyond that, they had to physically set up the fire so that it would remain contained—they didn't want to endanger Daisy any more than she already was. So before doing anything else, Sherlock bundled up several fine sheets and stuffed them tightly under the door into Daisy's room, creating as air-tight a seal as possible. If the back room had had any windows he would have opened them, but this was the best they could do under the circumstances.

In the end he decided on a mix of gauze and a pile of surgical drapes he found in a drawer—still cloth, but with a high cotton content and some sort of starch ironed in that would likely be fairly flammable.

He had searched the nightstand next to Nicky's cot and found a soft gown that would provide more coverage than the open-backed version she currently wore. He turned his back while she pulled it on (though she pointed out tartly that he had, after all, changed her diapers once upon a time). He helped her off of the cot and settled her next to the closed door to the hallway, along with two flannels he had dampened at the sink.

Finally, he arranged his materials in a pile at the far corner of the room, on top of the operating table. Because he wanted the flames and heat to siphon up (towards the smoke detectors and, presumably, the sprinkler system) and not sideways, he shoved the table up against the back wall and heaped everything up in the corner. Then he fished out the match sewn into the back of his jacket lapel, struck it with his thumbnail, and lit the pyre.

At first, everything went well. Sherlock watched from next to Nicky while flames crept steadily across the gauze, until a small fire burned steadily. Once the fire reached the surgical drapes, though, things started to go awry.

Sherlock and Nicky both had their damp flannels in their hands, ready to clasp them over their nose and mouth if smoke became an issue. What Sherlock had not realized, though, was that the flammable component of the starch used on the bedding produced both flame and smoke—a _lot_ of smoke. As it expanded to the rest of the room, the low-hanging cloud burned their eyes and seared their throats, despite the flannels now clutched to their faces. Nicky was largely fine, but Sherlock was suddenly reminded painfully of his experience with the burning oven. And he began to cough, and cough, and cough.

He also began to worry. The smoke detectors should have set off the sprinklers by now. And, according to the building plans, the initiation of the sprinklers should have instantly closed a circuit that automatically called the fire department and unlocked every door in the building simultaneously. But the room stayed dry and the doors locked.

The fire began to spread. The storage bins that Sherlock had left open in his search for materials began to smolder, then burn. Sherlock, by now severely alarmed, dragged a chair over to the center of the room, grabbed a bit of smoking fabric from the edge of the fire and held it directly up to a sprinkler head while he coughed and gasped for breath. But nothing happened.

He suddenly heard an ominous hissing, creaking sound from the far side of the room, unidentifiable but threatening. He had just managed to scuttle back to Nicky and cover her with his body when there was a massive bang and a metal spigot from the wall behind the operating table dislodged itself and shot across the room like a missile, lodging itself three inches deep in the opposite wall. Then, with a spitting roar, the entire back wall of the room burst into flames.

Sherlock panicked. For a moment he feared they would both die here. He was just at the point of looking for something to batter or pry the door with when all of the lights in the room abruptly went out. And then, thank God, he heard a dull thunk as the latching mechanism of the door released.

It took far longer to reach the medical facility that John and Lestrade would have wished. Despite Lestrade's creative cursing and use of the car's siren and lights, the crush of traffic kept them crawling along for the better part of twenty minutes. Greg had radioed ahead and ordered additional officers to the scene, making sure that no trucks or ambulances were allowed to leave the site. John had also texted Mycroft to advise him of the situation, but had yet to receive a response.

They arrived, finally, to a chaotic mess of trucks, movers, and police officers in front of the building. They pulled around to the parking lot in the rear and tumbled out, intending to head back to the front. But just as they moved away from the car, a small blast came from the rear corner of the building, and they moved instinctively in that direction. Flames began shooting out through the roof as Greg frantically put in a call for fire equipment. And just at that point, the back door swung open and Sherlock tumbled out, a gowned girl clutched to his side as he ran/staggered away from the building.

John reached them just as Sherlock's knees went. Sherlock managed to let the girl down gently as he hacked and gagged, the coughing making him bend at the waist with its force. John had just come to the conclusion that the girl—likely Nicky—seemed largely unharmed when Sherlock lurched to his feet and started back towards the building. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and the man turned and gasped "Daisy's still inside". John let go and yelled for Greg, then turned to run after Sherlock.

They had almost reached the door—John perhaps 30 feet away, Sherlock 15 feet closer—when there was a great rumbling roar and, as a tremendous buffeting blast of heat and air came at them, the building exploded into flames. John was thrown back flat on his back, and gazed astounded at the sky as Sherlock flew over his head, to land somewhere behind him.

Greg reached him first—it took John a moment to get his jangled senses back under control. By the time he got there, Sherlock was fighting to get up, making a sound like a wounded animal as he struggled to get back to the building. Lestrade laid on top of him as he fought, and John came to help, as Sherlock's keening turned again to horrible, rattling coughs. He was still weakly struggling when an ambulance shrilled around the corner and skidded to a halt beside them. As the paramedics tumbled out, though, he suddenly stopped—no more fighting, no more coughing, thank God.

But in the end, when John turned him on his back, he was profoundly glad the paramedics were there. Because Sherlock, in addition to stopping fighting and coughing, had also stopped breathing.

Notes:

The description of the gas spigot flying across the room is not fiction. Most modern surgical units have gas lines (oxygen, nitrous oxide, surgical air) run in the walls of operating theatres. Those lines lead to large tanks for the gas held elsewhere in the building. When those tanks are exposed to enough heat or pressure change they can rupture. I read a description of a hospital accident where the oxygen tank had this happen, and the spigot in the OR shot across the room and severely injured someone. In this case, of course, that would have also vented large amounts of oxygen to feed the fire.

See, I don't just make this crap up!

And yes, I know-another %(*&$%(* cliffhanger.


	19. So he was consumed

Within less than five minutes, Sherlock was intubated, he and Nicky were loaded into an ambulance, and John climbed in the back with them. John was profoundly glad that he knew one of the paramedics personally—his presence probably wasn't technically allowable, but he wasn't about to let the ambulance leave without him.

As the paramedics pumped air into Sherlock while assessing the rest of his injuries, John focused on Nicky. Despite her apparently good physical condition, her distress level rose with every minute that Sherlock failed to wake. John, under the guise of taking her vitals, tried to distract her from what was going on behind them (while admittedly trying to distract himself as well).

"I'm John," he said. "I'm Sherlock's friend, but I'm also a doctor. What's your name?"

"Nicky," she said shakily, trying to look back over her shoulder. "What's wrong with Locket? Why hasn't he woken up?" Her heart rate, audible on the monitor John had attached, sped up noticeably.

"I think he may have had a problem with the smoke," John said soothingly. "They're just going to help him breathe for a bit, until his lungs catch back up." And John really, really hoped that was true.

"But why doesn't he wake up?" she fretted. "He's getting air now. I want him to wake up," she said in a wobbling voice.

"That's what we're going to hospital to find out," John said, still trying for a soothing tone. "He may have hit his head when he was thrown as well. We'll sort it all out for him."

"But he just got back," Nicky stuttered, beginning to sob. "He…we thought he was dead. And then he wasn't, and we were so…he _just got back_." And as she came apart, and John made nonsense sounds and wrapped her in blankets, he found himself fighting tears as well. _God, he couldn't do this again._

It was a very long night. Sherlock proved to have a collapsed lung as well as a moderate concussion. He woke, unfortunately, during the process of having a chest tube inserted, panicked, confused and combative. John, who had been trying to stay out of the way to avoid being evicted from the room, slid over to hold Sherlock's head still. It wasn't clear if Sherlock actually recognized him, but it did calm him enough that the staff were able to continue their work.

At just before midnight Sherlock had been moved to a room, hooked up to oxygen and a drip with a laundry list of medications flowing in his veins. John sagged, exhausted, on the pull-out chair. Mary, who had arrived an hour or so before, drowsed on the second cot.

John hadn't planned to stay the night—once Sherlock was awake and oriented, he was planning to go home and come back in the morning. But the concussion had left Sherlock fearful and reactive—every time he woke he would make a concerted effort to climb out of the bed. In the end, even John agreed that soft restraints on his arms were necessary. Once that was established, there was no way he could leave Sherlock to wake and find himself tied. John pulled the chair around so that he was next to Sherlock's head, and every time those pale eyes opened he immediately began to talk. "I'm here; you're safe; you were injured but you're getting better."

They'd gone through it five times by 3am. At that point Mary sighed, stretched, trotted over and forced John to cede his spot at Sherlock's side, while John staggered woozily over and sprawled on the spare cot in her place. He was just drifting off when he heard movement, and then Mary's soft voice: "We're here; you're safe…"

John woke just after dawn to Sherlock's painful coughing. He caught Mary's eye, and she went for the nurse while John grabbed the water pitcher and held the straw for Sherlock, who took it gratefully. After several sips and another bout of coughing, Sherlock laid back and sighed. "How long?" he rasped, in a wrecked voice.

"About 12 hours," John said. "How are you feeling?"

"Hurts," Sherlock said faintly, moving as if trying to find a comfortable position and glaring at the wrist restraints.

John reached over to rearrange pillows and remove the restraints. "Yeah, I know. Mary went to get the nurse—you're due for pain meds, I'm sure. And I'm pretty sure you'll also have a breathing treatment in a bit." He took a quick look at the chest tube, and called it to Sherlock's attention. "You need to leave that alone, all right?" Sherlock scowled but pulled the hand that had crept towards his side back to his stomach.

"So what are the damages?" he asked, still in a breathy, quiet voice. He laid back and closed his eyes again briefly, a pained expression on his face.

"Collapsed lung," said John. "That's what the chest tube is for, and where most of your pain is coming from, most likely, as well as the shortness of breath. And a moderate concussion—you were pretty confused last night, hence the restraints. Are you having pain in your head?"

"Christ, yes," Sherlock sighed. "And before you ask, yes, I'm nauseous, and yes, I'm dizzy. Not exactly a shock." His fingers worked fretfully across the blanket edge. Then, in a deceptively toneless voice, "Did they find the remains yet?"

John's heart lurched in his chest. He had hoped to delay this conversation a bit longer. "No," he said quietly. "They have to wait just a bit for everything to cool. Greg says it will probably be this afternoon."

Sherlock's face worked just a bit before he got control of himself. "Have you seen Nicky? What have her doctors said?" he finally managed.

A much happier topic, thank God. "She popped in very briefly last night when they were getting you settled here. She's basically fine—they just want to keep her a couple of days for observation and some tests. She said she'd be back after breakfast this morning." John smiled. "She's a bright little thing. I can see why you like her."

Sherlock gave a slight smile. "She's also profoundly stubborn. Just wait until you ask her to do something she doesn't want to do."

John smirked. "Can't imagine where she learned that." Sherlock ignored him.

The next hour was busy. Sherlock's pain medication arrived and was accepted with a grateful sigh. But immediately thereafter the respiratory technician arrived and worked a reluctant Sherlock through a necessary, but painful, breathing treatment. No sooner was that completed than the breakfast tray came, but Sherlock got a whiff of it and turned his head away with a gagging cough. "Please…just take it…" he gasped. Mary quickly picked it up and took it across to the table on the far side of the room.

John walked down to the nurse's station and asked what light snacks they kept on hand, and came back with a small tub of tinned peaches, something he knew Sherlock would usually eat if pressed. When he got back to the room Mary was nibbling on the contents of the tray while a drowsy Sherlock kept his head averted. John pulled the side table over and set the fruit down. "Here," he said. "You need to eat something—it'll settle your stomach. And you like these." Sherlock opened one eye suspiciously, but ultimately ate half of the tub. Then he yawned, closed his eyes, and went gratefully back to sleep.

Once they were sure he was really down for the count, Mary bundled up her things to go home. John planned to stay the day, in part because he wanted to be there when Greg Lestrade arrived with whatever news he chose to share. It was clear that Sherlock was taking Daisy's death very hard.

After two hours in the uncomfortable chair John's shoulder was screaming, and he was expiring from boredom—watching Sherlock sleep was reassuring but dull. So he wrote a little note and propped it up on Sherlock's table, then headed downstairs to the café for an early lunch.

When he came back ninety minutes later, he was surprised to find Nicky, in bare feet and pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the foot of Sherlock's cot. She gave him a beaming smile. "I didn't realize last night. You're _that_ John, aren't you?" she said cheerfully. "He talks about you a lot." She stopped short. "Well, a lot for him, anyway."

John grinned back. "That's me." He held out his hand and gave a theatrical bow. "We weren't formally introduced—John Watson, at your service." Her smile broadened. "I would curtsey, you know, but I'm not wearing skirts at present," she said, sweeping her arm over her fuzzy pajama pants. "In fact, the only skirts I own are dance skirts. Nicolette Hardy. Better known as Nicky."

She was good company. They chatted comfortably while Sherlock let out the occasional light snore—Nicky mentioned that he'd had a second dose of pain medication shortly before, so he was likely down for a while.

After a bit, though, her conversation trailed off, and John could tell she was working herself up to something. She tilted her head down and looked up through her lashes. "He thinks it's his fault, you know," she finally said. "Daisy. I told him it wasn't—he wasn't the one who pumped her up on that fucking medicine. But he's very…he was upset." Her mouth worked and her eyes filled. "You'd have to know him to tell. But he's upset."

"Yeah, I know," John said quietly.

"Uncle Myc was here for a few minutes," she continued, after a shaky little breath. "He was nice, but Locket was horrible to him." She looked at John earnestly. "That's how you can tell he's really unhappy. When he gets angry if someone's nice to him." And John realized she was right—he'd never thought about it in exactly that way, but it was quite true.

"He thinks…because of the fire, you know. That he did that," she went on. "But I tried to tell him. They were never going to let us go. They told us that. And they'd already hurt him, really badly. So we really had no choice." She looked at John fiercely. "We _didn't_."

"Of course you didn't," John said stoutly. And that seemed to satisfy her.

Nicky wandered back to her own room shortly after that—she was due for some additional tests. Sherlock stirred and opened his eyes sleepily when she climbed off the cot, and she leaned over and gave him a kiss on the forehead, laughing at his disgruntled expression. "Don't be so stroppy," she said. "I'll be back in a bit. And Uncle Myc is coming back as well, I think."

Sherlock's mock gags chased her out the door.

It was a quiet afternoon—almost pleasant, if you forgot the circumstances. Sherlock was just drugged enough to be content to stay in bed with nothing more than the occasional whine, and John found an interesting nature documentary on telly that kept both of them marginally entertained. As sunset approached, though, things changed. Sherlock was due for additional pain medication but summarily refused it—Lestrade had texted shortly before to say he was on his way, and Sherlock wanted his mind clear for the conversation to come. John could see him tensing, either from pain or stress, but could think of nothing to relieve it.

Nicky came back just before 5. She took one look at Sherlock's tight, fake smile and turned a worried face to John, who just shook his head. She settled back on the foot of Sherlock's cot with a frown.

Shortly afterward, the door swung open to admit Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper and Mycroft. John saw Mycroft take note of Sherlock's brittle calm, but the older Holmes said nothing, though he gave a fond smile to Nicky.

Greg and Molly each carried an assortment of folders, which they dropped thankfully on the spare cot. Molly, being Molly, asked Sherlock how he was feeling, and received the requisite "fine," in the breathy voice that was all Sherlock could manage today. Her face mirrored Mycroft's earlier look.

"I guess we should just jump right in, if you're ready, Sherlock," Greg began. His only response was a jerky nod, but that was enough, under the circumstances.

"So, we managed to round up everyone from the operation, and they're singing like larks—including some weaselly sod that crawled out of the loo and claimed he'd been assaulted by some mad curly-haired serial killer." He looked significantly at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. "I'll let Molly get into the medical specifics of it, but short version is, a Korean researcher had come up with a new drug that caused women to produce lots of eggs, very quickly. But when the Korean officials realized that the doc's research subjects weren't all, shall we say, completely _willing_ , they stripped his license and his funding." He paused and looked to his right expectantly.

Mycroft took up the tale. "Enter Allan Cumberland. His investment fund had been one of the donors to Dr. Lee's operations, with the promise of first shot at the eventual patent for the UK and US markets. When it became clear that that market would never materialize—because the new drug was lethal to a high percentage of patients—the focus changed. Cumberland had a contact in the illegal fertility treatment world—buying women's eggs and selling them at ruinous prices, which is illegal in most of the developed world—and that contact was extremely interested in procuring the drug and the future services of Dr. Lee. But they first required a true field trial under controlled conditions."

Greg picked up the reins again. "But according to Dr. Lee, this is where Cumberland got greedy. The initial plan had been to secure 'donors' off the streets—offer homeless women a nominal amount in exchange for accepting the treatment and giving up their eggs. That had a lot of appeal—no need to worry about nonsense like 'informed consent' when no records were going to be maintained in the first place. But at some point Dr. Lee mentioned that the eggs from this test round would simply be discarded at the end of the trial, since the bulk of the participants had exposure to diseases, drugs, malnutrition, the lot."

At that juncture the story was picked up by a very surprising source. Nicky had, to this point, been sitting quietly on the end of Sherlock's cot. But it was clear that having Sherlock Holmes as a childminder had led to unexpected benefits. "So they decided to find a high-end market—go to the type of people who wouldn't want to wait to go through normal channels, and had the money to burn. People who probably wouldn't be very concerned about checking the bona fides of the facility." Lestrade blinked in surprise, but nodded. Nicky, encouraged, continued. "But to cater to that crowd they had to be able to claim that they were providing the very best—the caviar of eggs, as it were." She gave a sardonic grin, and startled a crack of laughter from Sherlock, while the others looked some mixture of shocked or appalled. She noticed their response. "Look, this happened to me—and now I'm OK, and I refuse to wallow in it any further. I'm glad these bastards were stopped. I'm glad that Aislinn and Melanie are OK …," she stopped abruptly and looked anxiously to Mycroft. "They are, Uncle Myc, aren't they?" Mycroft nodded, and she continued, relieved. "And I want to do anything I can to put everyone who was involved away for the rest of their nasty, short lives."

"Bravo," Molly said softly, and every head swiveled to look at her, at which point she blushed violently but stood her ground. "Well, it is, I mean, I wish everyone was that strong after, well…" she trailed off. She abruptly picked up her folders and changed the subject.

"Right. Well, the medical side. I checked with some friends of mine who work in fertility medicine to get some help on evaluating the test results of the drug itself once we had the samples. It's similar to some of the other drugs legitimately used in clinics today. But the difficulty with those drugs is that they are tied to a woman's natural cycle, so that it takes about 2 weeks for eggs to mature from the ovary, even though there are many more eggs than usual. _This_ drug accelerated that process dramatically, so that there could be as little as 3 days between administration of the drug and retrieval of the mature eggs."

She looked cautiously at Nicky, then continued. "But the problem was, not every woman's body could tolerate that kind of manipulation. Some women have dangerous complications even with the standard drugs—at least 10% of all patients who try the process have to stop for one reason or another. This drug, though—it's hard to be sure given that Dr. Lee destroyed all of his records from Korea, so we only have anecdotal evidence from some of his staff. But it's fair to say that at least 45% of those who take the drug have some kind of problem, and a significant percentage of those develop life-threatening complications. Deadly complications, unless someone takes the right actions very, very quickly."

Nicky had gone very quiet, her eyes a little too bright. But she spoke up, in a soft voice. "Can you tell us what happened to Daisy now?"

Molly fluttered, unsure how to proceed. "Um…maybe you should step outside for that bit?" she asked uncertainly. "It's not…I mean it's really…"

Nicky shook her head solemnly. Sherlock had tensed beside her, and her hand moved over to rest lightly on his blanket-covered leg. "I need to know. _We_ need to know."

Molly looked helplessly at Greg, but when he nodded slowly she sighed and picked the folder back up, flipping it open, speaking directly to the papers rather than her audience. "Um, OK then. She had most of the same things we found in the last body, oh, sorry, _Andrea_. Total kidney failure, ruptured ovaries, internal bleeding. Her liver had also taken some damage, but I'm not as sure about that, since I don't know how long she'd been dead when the fire started. The temperature can make a difference…" she trailed off in response to the shocked reaction from across the room. Nicky had latched onto Sherlock's leg hard, her eyes round and stunned. And Sherlock's breathing and heart rate had sped up to the point that one of his monitors was going off, which launched John out of his chair. Molly was horrified. "Oh my God. I thought…you didn't know? She was, she'd already… You thought the _fire_?"

And it was probably because she'd known him the longest that Nicky was the first to realize. She had already launched herself from the foot of the cot to twine her arms around him tightly when Sherlock gasped, and shook, and, eyes wide and mouth working, shoved his head into Nicky's neck and sobbed like his heart was breaking.


	20. Collect thy wits and return to thy reaso

Molly, of all of them, suddenly took charge and hustled everyone out of the room, leaving Sherlock and Nicky alone together. It was, after all, only the two of them who understood what they had been through, and what this news meant. John made a conscious effort _not_ to hear what was going on inside the room.

After 5 minutes, a subdued Nicky opened the door and gestured for them to return. She said nothing, just climbed back up and sat protectively beside Sherlock at the head of the cot.

Sherlock's face was blotchy and his eyes red. But it was immediately clear that he was going to act as if the past few minutes never happened. Thankfully, everyone in attendance seemed more than willing to go along with that approach.

Greg decided to pick up the gauntlet. "So, where were we?" he began. "Molls, were you done?"

Molly bobbed her head. "Yes, I…nothing more. Just…the samples and Dr. Lee together should be enough to convict anyone connected with this. They can never claim they didn't know."

Nicky cleared her throat. "So they go to jail. After they left poor Daisy behind like that, like the rubbish you pick up last when you move out of a flat." She looked at Greg challengingly. "What exactly will happen that's bad enough for that? You know prison isn't enough, you _know_ that." Her voice cracked a bit, and Sherlock silently reached out and put his hand on top of hers.

Mycroft shifted a bit. "Well, as to that," he said smoothly. "Because of the international connection, certain of the principals have been remanded into government facilities and will follow the, shall we say, more _stringent_ legal process that entails." He looked down at his fingernails thoughtfully. "As it happens, however, there is something of a mystery involved. Allan Cumberland, the primary investor, was in the midst of transfer to the holding facility when his vehicle deviated from the route. He has yet to be located." He looked up blandly. "It's most concerning," he said with absolutely no attempt at being convincing.

Greg Lestrade flinched but said nothing. John happened to look over at the right time, and noticed the tiny lift at the corners of Sherlock's mouth that was the Sherlockian equivalent of a true grin. He was stunned to see that Mycroft now bore the identical expression.

Nicky's face did something interesting, caught between scandalized and pleased. "Uncle Myc," she finally said. "You're scary sometimes, you know that?" But the final, fond expression on her face took any sting out of it. Mycroft just looked mildly pleased with himself.

Lestrade shook his head. "She's just as mad as the rest of you, isn't she?"

Sherlock sighed theatrically. "It's that old argument. Nature versus nurture." He gave Nicky an almost-smile, and she leaned carefully against his shoulder. She stayed there, quiet but content, until the others left and Sherlock's next dose of pain medication sent him back to sleep.

Nicky was released the next day, though she still ended up spending considerable time afterward in Sherlock's room. Sherlock spent a total of 5 days in hospital; he was initially due to be released once his chest tube was removed, but by that time had started showing signs of mild pneumonia, which his doctors took very seriously indeed based on John's summary of Sherlock's recent history.

Those extra two days were unpleasant in the extreme. John came by each day at least once, and Mary joined him one evening. But Sherlock felt just well enough to be irritable and bored, but not well enough to actually do much to entertain himself.

By the dawn of the 5th day, everyone concerned—the hospital staff, John, Mary, Nicky, anyone who had contact with Sherlock, admitted defeat and agreed it was time for him to go home.

Sherlock had originally agitated to return immediately to Baker Street, but was foiled by Mrs. Hudson's absence—that redoubtable lady was visiting her cousins in Wales for the next week, and even Sherlock realized he was going to need some help the first couple of days. Mycroft offered his home, of course, knowing he would be refused and waiting only to see how violent that refusal would be (relatively mild, surprisingly—Sherlock must be feeling indulgent towards his brother, but not indulgent enough to agree to spend time in "that plastic Victorian mausoleum" Mycroft called home). In the end he came home with John and Mary, who ignored his protestations that he was "fine" and just loaded him carefully into the car as he continued to whinge.

To say that Sherlock was still irritable would be to understate the situation: Sherlock, as Greg Lestrade put it after his visit that afternoon, was in a "pisser of a mood". Relieved to be out of hospital, certainly—the 4-hour nap he took as soon as they arrived was evidence of that, since it was completely without the need for pain medication—but still off-kilter in some undefined way.

"Maybe it's the antibiotics," John said wearily to Mary that afternoon, after their house guest stomped off in a sulk after being forced to let John change his dressings. "God knows he rarely has a standard reaction to any other medication."

By evening Sherlock had mellowed a bit, but there was still an odd undercurrent to his mood that was unsettling. He sat on the couch next to Mary, a pillow clutched to his chest to support his sore ribs, and watched the Avengers movie on DVD. Actually watched it. As in, no shouting at the more absurd scientific lapses, no theatrical sighs, no throwing of hands in the air in despair at the general idiocy of it all.

John found it very disturbing. Mary laughed at him when he mentioned it as they were getting ready for bed. Sherlock had chosen to stay in the lounge and watch a documentary on Roman Britain ("it's much more interesting than what we just watched, John. And I slept all day—I'm not tired in the least!")

John reacted first, though he later realized that Mary had moved almost as quickly. Before he was really aware of it he had rolled out of bed and was pulling his gun out of the nightstand before darting down the hallway towards the lounge. The lounge, where someone was bellowing in an incomprehensible language while (apparently) throwing furniture around. The place where Sherlock was last.

And that, of course, was what pulled John up short, and lead to his handing the pistol carefully to Mary behind him—he knew instinctively that showing Sherlock a weapon right now would be a very bad idea indeed.

Because of course, the one shouting, screaming almost, and throwing furniture (or falling over it, evidently) was the detective himself. He was huddled in the far corner of the darkened room, chairs and the large stuffed ottoman tipped on their sides to form a barricade of sorts. Sherlock was crouched behind it, eyes wild and unfocused, periodically issuing a challenge in some Eastern European language that John didn't recognize.

John instinctively started forward, holding his hands out in as unthreatening a manner as possible. Sherlock froze and shouted again, his voice abruptly cracking as the lingering pneumonia sent him into a coughing fit. Sherlock whined with pain and pressed one hand over the bandages under his shirt—the shirt John was concerned to see was stained with blood.

John started to move forward again, saying soothing nonsense, when Mary abruptly grabbed his hand. "Wait," she said, and moved out from behind him. Then she spoke to Sherlock in what appeared to be the same language—not exactly soothingly, but in a calm and matter-of-fact way. When John gaped at her, she muttered "Hungarian" under her breath while continuing to focus on Sherlock, now quiet but warily observing from behind his furniture redoubt.

John and Mary edged forward, while Sherlock watched them like a wary guard dog, his eyes darting around the room, clearly seeing things they did not. But Mary continued this unlikely conversation, the tone of her voice edging more into a soft, lilting mode. When they were almost within touching distance Sherlock stiffened and backed up as far as possible. Mary reached out her hand, slowly, slowly, and then switched to English. "Sherlock," she said softly. "Where are you?"

Sherlock answered her in Hungarian, hesitantly. Then he blinked, and blinked again, before he suddenly said "Oh," in a surprised way, and sat abruptly on the carpet.

John scrambled over the barricade of chairs, shoving them out of the way as he went, and slumped to his knees beside his friend. Sherlock was clearly shocky—trembling heavily, deathly pale, his breaths labored and raspy. "Bring my bag. And some water," he said over his shoulder to Mary, as he ran hands quickly over the bandages to try and gauge the amount of bleeding. He was pleased to see that it wasn't extensive—perhaps a stitch popped, then, but no more.

By the time Mary came back with his kit and a large glass of water, John had managed to half-lead, half-carry a woozy Sherlock to the couch and tuck a pillow under his head. He felt Sherlock's icy hands, swore, and pulled the afghan from the back of the couch, tucking it tightly around his patient. While he took Sherlock's vitals—both heart rate and breathing unacceptably fast—he gently tried to check his orientation.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked gently. Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at him, and finally whispered, "Yes". He closed his eyes and swallowed heavily. John pushed the edge of his soft t-shirt up to reach the damp bandages, glad to see that the bleeding had largely stopped. Two stitches needed replacing—most likely damaged when Sherlock was stumbling over the furniture.

While he injected a local anesthetic (with Mary acting as scrub nurse beside him) and then starting replacing the stitches, he asked the question he was sure he already knew the answer to. "Did you have a flashback?"

Sherlock shuddered. "Apparently so," he said in a rasping voice, before lurching up to cough painfully again. That pained whine came again, and made John's decision for him. He reached into his kit and prepared a syringe—a low dose of morphine, not enough to put Sherlock fully under, but enough to offset the pain from the fall and this continued coughing. After a few minutes Sherlock gave a relieved sigh. "Thank you, John," he croaked. He managed, very slowly and carefully, to sit back up with John's help.

Mary had hustled into the kitchen while John was finishing up, and now came back with three mugs that smelled fragrantly of hot chocolate. "I thought it would be better than tea, at half-three in the morning," she said as she handed them out. Sherlock took his but made no move to drink any. His hands were still trembling, as was the rest of him.

To give him time to compose himself a little further, John turned to Mary. "So," he said quizzically. " _Hungarian_?"

Mary took a sip of her chocolate and smiled before she answered. "I spent a summer in Hungary when I was 18," she said. "I had this ridiculous idea of joining a charity organization there that worked with displaced people." She cocked her head to one side and chuckled. "Turns out I wasn't quite as charitable as I needed to be. The third time some tatty pensioner pinched my bum I decked him. They sent me home the next day."

"Can't imagine why," Sherlock said drily. John found himself giggling rather more than the story called for—relief that nothing truly serious had happened, probably.

But what happened had been bad enough, and needed to be addressed. As the laughter trailed off and Mary left to carry the cups back into the kitchen, John picked up the threads of the earlier conversation. "So, the flashback. Can you talk about it?" he said quietly.

Sherlock was silent for a minute, clearly considering ignoring everything once again. But John could almost see the thought process—the point at which Sherlock remembered that he had promised to talk, even if he didn't really want to.

"It wasn't exactly a flashback, at least not as I understand such things," he began, voice a little blurry now that the morphine had kicked in. "It was…it began as a nightmare, I believe. At least I'm fairly sure I had been asleep. It had to do with Hungary. But it wasn't anything that actually _happened_. Pasha was there, at first, and then he wasn't, but I couldn't find him and didn't know why. And someone, Aron and his people I think, had chased me, and I had hidden in an abandoned building. But I thought I heard them coming in. I shouted at them to tell them I had a gun. I didn't, but then I did." His breathing was becoming agitated again, and John reached out to place a soothing hand on his knee. Sherlock paused, but then looked troubled.

"I don't understand," he almost-whispered. "How can I be upset by something that didn't really happen?" He looked cold, and bewildered, and miserable.

"Because your brain made you think it _did_ happen, was happening right then," John said simply. "It took real things—your losing Pasha, the escape from Aron—and melded them together with other things, and came up with something new but still unsettling. It's a _nightmare_ , Sherlock—they don't always make sense, but it doesn't make them any less frightening."

Sherlock puffed himself up a bit, clearly preparing to claim he hadn't been frightened. But then he just as quickly deflated, realizing that hiding behind the furniture was its own indication of the state of things. There was a longish, uncomfortable silence while he stared at his feet, and John tried to remain still and open. And Sherlock finally gave a shaky sigh, and breathed, "I hate it."

Sherlock stayed two more days, unusually quiet days for the most part. Of course the first day he slept quite a bit—the 3am flashback/nightmare had taken a great deal out of him, and it wasn't until the evening that he perked back up again, feeling well enough to join John and Mary in watching a rather dull movie. But he was still uncharacteristically subdued the following day as well. He fitfully corresponded with Mycroft on some minor loose end from the abduction case, and had a snarky exchange or two with Lestrade that John, hearing only Sherlock's end of the conversation, could tell was in relation to a case Sherlock really couldn't be bothered with. Outside of that, though, he spent far too much time just lying on the couch, and not in a "I'm-in-my-mind-palace-go-away" mode. This was more of a "I'm-lying-here-thinking-of-nothing-and-not-enjoying-it" affair.

On the third day, though, he evidently reached some sort of accord with himself, and came striding into the kitchen for breakfast dressed and ready to go. John was pleased to see some of his old sparkle, for lack of a better word—that indefinable air of banked excitement that made Sherlock, Sherlock. "That case of Lestrade's is rather more interesting than I first thought," he said while munching absently on the toast Mary dropped in front of him. "There's apparently someone hiding valuables in corpses, well coffins, actually, transported by air. And the interesting thing is, none of them originate in the same place, nor have they gone through the same airports at any time until reaching London. Given that a Heathrow baggage crew are the ones who first reported it—a casket was inadvertently dropped off the ramp and came open, displaying both the unfortunate corpse as well as an unexpected cache of emeralds—it's unlikely that they are responsible either." He beamed.

John was a bit envious—that did sound intriguing. But— "Mary and I have shifts at the surgery today," he said regretfully. "Will you be OK on your own for a while? Want me to drive you back to Baker Street on my way?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said dismissively. "And don't worry about transportation. Lestrade will be by to pick me up shortly. I told him that otherwise he would have to pay my cab fare back into the city." Not a mild threat, that—John knew from experience that the long cab ride could easily rack up a £75 bill before tip.

Ten minutes later Greg Lestrade honked out front, and Sherlock picked up his small bag and flitted out the door, coat swaying as usual.

John looked around the empty kitchen, and was amazed how the man seemed to suck all of the air from the room as he left it.

It was a hectic week. There was a particularly virulent strain of gastrointestinal illness that was making the rounds, and the entire staff of the surgery worked long, difficult hours as a result. John managed to break free one evening and spent a few hours chasing around after Sherlock, who seemed focused but tired, with ever-increasing dark circles under his eyes. John wasn't sure if that was the typical "I-don't-sleep-when-I'm-on-a-case" exhaustion, or something more troubling. Sherlock was clearly enjoying himself, though, and Lestrade seemed pleased by the progress they were making, so John shoved his mild worry to the back of his mind.

By the time John was able to be fully involved again, Sherlock had been working the case for almost 10 days. Things had suddenly taken an ominous turn when another coffin turned up at Heathrow, this time with both a bag of jewels and a fresher-than-expected corpse. Not embalmed, but bludgeoned, and stuffed in the coffin (appallingly) while still alive, since the cause of death was asphyxiation.

Sherlock was shaken, though he denied it. The idea was horrible, of course. But for a claustrophobic this was particularly unsettling. Molly and John watched the color bleach from his face while they stood over the stainless steel autopsy table. Molly cleared her throat and continued, with visible reluctance. "He apparently regained consciousness at some point—there was damage to his hands."

"Christ," John muttered.

Sherlock gave himself a little shake, then cleared his throat. "Yes, well," he said. "Evidently a falling out among thieves. Though I suppose it's possible he was an innocent party—the rightful owner of the gems, perhaps. But it's more likely this is intended to send a message to the recipients—perhaps retaliation for pilferage."

"That seems a trifle ... harsh," John said. "Beating the crap out of them, yeah, I get that. Killing them, even. But _sealing them up alive_?"

"These are not _reasonable_ people, John," Sherlock sniffed. "They are dealing in regular shipments worth millions of dollars each. How often do reasonable people get involved in that kind of thing?"

John had to admit that was true.

The problem they were encountering was the apparent randomness of the shipments—all from different regions of the world, all (as it turned out) unidentifiable corpses with falsified documents. The intended recipients were also nonexistent, so it had always been clear that the clues must lie in where the gems originated, and where they were actually intended to go. Sherlock was quite sure that evidence was being lost when the loading crews opened the caskets before the police arrived—though no one (at least so far as they knew) had actually taken any jewels, they had been far from careful in their handling of the coffins or the corpses. Of the three found in the past six months, none had yielded any useful information.

Since the episode with the less-than-dead corpse, all of the baggage crews had strict instructions. Any coffin, shipped without an escort, that was not picked up within 20 minutes of arrival was to be quarantined and held, unopened, in a locked, guarded room.

The first of these had occurred two days ago, and had been a disappointment. "Someone's poor old grandad," Greg sighed. "The granddaughter got caught in traffic in Uxbridge and was an hour late meeting the flight. The folks at the origination airport in Libya didn't speak English and filled out the customs forms wrong, so none of the names matched. A total tits-up all around."

Sherlock had just snarled and flounced out.

Today, though, was much more promising. Flight origination was Hamburg, but the paperwork (the Germans were always meticulous with their paperwork) indicated the coffin had travelled by ground from somewhere in Ukraine. The intended recipient proved to have been dead for 3 years so it was unlikely they would be showing up to claim the body.

Just as they were preparing to hail a taxi to the airport, though, John got an urgent phone call—one of his longtime patients had been admitted to hospital and had asked for him. John looked helplessly at Sherlock, torn between two duties. "Go," Sherlock barked. "You'll be of no use to me like this anyway. You can meet us when you're done."

And John, reluctantly, went.

Three hours later, John was just finishing up with his patient (doing well, thankfully—not quite a false alarm, but not as serious as originally feared) when he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. Over the next ten minutes, while he finished up entering orders and chatting with the staff, it buzzed two more times. He chuckled mentally—apparently this was taking too long for Sherlock's comfort. When he walked back out to the carpark and opened his phone, though, he got something of a shock. Only one message, the first, had been from Sherlock. The next two were from Lestrade.

 _ **Call me, can you? Important**_ , said the first.

The second, sent five minutes later, was more insistent.

 _ **It's a bit urgent. I'm going to have to call Mycroft next if I don't hear from you.**_

John dialed as quickly as he could. Greg picked up on the first ring.

"What's wrong?" John said quickly. This couldn't possibly be anything good.

"I…look, can you come pick up Sherlock from Heathrow and make sure he goes home and stays there, at least until tomorrow morning?" Greg said, something uncomfortable in his tone. "I could call Mycroft, but Sherlock's already…I don't want to, OK?"

"But what's happened? Is he hurt?" John asked, confused.

"Now it's not quite how it sounds," Greg said hesitantly. "But he, well, he sort of attacked one of my officers."


	21. And he wept before the kind

**TRIGGER WARNING: If you are sensitive to scenes including suicidal ideation, please don't read this chapter.**

John took the car. He didn't want to wait for a taxi, even if he'd been willing to pay the fare. It was only a little after 3 pm, so traffic was light. Following Greg's directions, he pulled into a fenced security area set a bit apart from the main terminal area. The guard at the gate looked closely at his identification and waved him towards a parking spot near a row of blast barriers.

He rang for admittance at the locked entry door and was relieved to see it swung open by Greg Lestrade. "Thank God," the man sighed. "C'mon in."

They walked down a typical bland corridor, military green walls with dirty grey carpet. Instead of meeting Sherlock, though, John was surprised to find himself led into a small windowless office. Greg came in as well and closed the door behind them, then leaned his hip on the metal desk set against one wall. "So," he said. "Sherlock's down the hall. He's, well, he's not _fine_ , but he's safe enough. But you and I need to have a chat before you see him." Greg's voice was serious, and held more than a hint of anger. He gestured at the folding metal chair parked in front of the desk. "Have a seat."

John did, just a bit surprised at Greg's manner. "Gonna tell me what happened, then?" he said mildly.

"Short version?" Greg said tightly. "He was examining the coffin. Really tightly focused. Got down on his knees to look underneath and dropped his phone. One of my PCs reached over to pick it up, and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to balance himself when he stood back up—got a bit off-kilter, apparently. And Sherlock came up, grabbed his arm, and slammed his head into the tabletop."

John's jaw dropped. "Is he OK?" he said faintly. And even John wasn't clear which "he" was intended.

"The PC was out cold. They've taken him to the medical unit here in the airport; I'm going to go check on him shortly. The paramedics didn't seem to think it was too serious, but we'll see. Sherlock—I have no fucking idea, since he won't talk. At all. Not a word. He just backed right up against the wall, closed his eyes and shook. He's down the hall in a room here. I left one of my officers with him—just wasn't comfortable leaving him alone, y'know?" And John did know, of course. He would have felt exactly the same.

What he felt right now, though, was guilt. Great, ugly, crushing guilt. He _knew_ Sherlock wasn't doing well, should have urged him to have another of their sessions, or taken a holiday, or _something_.

Greg apparently picked up on that, and shook his head. "You're not getting it," he said soberly. "This isn't your fault. It's not my fault, and it sure as hell isn't Sherlock's fault. But what _is_ your fault," he said angrily, "is not telling me that Sherlock had full-blown triggers. God knows I'm not surprised he has them. But _Jesus_ , John—I assume you knew, what with your talking with him and all. And you let him come work with me and never told me that certain things were going to push him over the edge? So that I could have, I dunno, been prepared? And maybe _avoided_ this?"

John blinked, and opened his mouth to speak, and then immediately closed it again. Because Lestrade was absolutely right, and this was inexcusable, and he deserved to be shot at sunrise. "God," he almost-whispered. "I am really, really sorry."

"Yeah, well," Greg huffed, somewhat mollified. "There is a bit of good news in all of this, I suppose. The PC he decked knows Sherlock—has a bit of a hero-worship thing going, in fact. Camden—you remember him, I think. He was in on the case with Comstock—saw a bit of Sherlock's, um, _issues_ then, so he's likely to be pretty understanding. If it was anyone else, we'd be potentially looking at assault charges."

John raised his chin stubbornly at that. "There's no way those would stand—you know very well it wasn't intentional."

"Yeah," said Greg soberly. "But the only way they could resolve that would be to bring in the psych folks. Do you really think Sherlock wants to sit through that kind of hearing?" He paused, then continued hesitantly. "Do you think he would pass a psych evaluation right now?"

John snorted. "Mycroft told me once that Sherlock's been running rings around psychiatrists since he was a child. I think he could handle it."

"Well, maybe," Greg replied. "But I'm not sure he wouldn't be better served by flunking it."

The room Sherlock was in was small, and quiet, and dark. Someone (Sherlock?) had turned the overhead lights off; the only light came from one small slit window at the roofline. When John opened the door, the PC standing just inside quickly slid out without comment.

Sherlock was not immediately visible. John had to walk around the desk resting in the middle of the room before he spied the detective sitting against the back wall, knees bent and forehead resting atop them. Following an instinct he didn't quite understand, John said nothing. He simply walked over, turned his back to the wall and slid into place next to his friend, almost, but not quite, touching.

One minute passed; two. Finally, Sherlock heaved a sigh and spoke, in a quiet, subdued voice. "How's Camden?"

"Pretty sure he'll be fine," John said evenly. "Greg says the paramedics weren't too worried. We can go check in a bit, when you're ready."

Sherlock made a horrible noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I rather doubt he's anxious to see me at the moment."

"I dunno," John said mildly. "Lestrade says he's got a bit of a man-crush on you, apparently. He's liable to be excited to have your full attention." He paused, debating with himself momentarily, then went for it. "Of course, I suspect he'd rather you didn't hit him again…" he said, looking up at Sherlock through his lashes.

And Sherlock, surprised, gave an involuntary, though slightly damp, snort of laughter. "I make no guarantees," he finally said with a theatrical sigh.

Just like that, then. They could laugh, just a bit. For the moment, it was not _quite_ the end of the world, and Sherlock could see just a glimmer of daylight. John sighed as well, much more heartfelt than Sherlock's version.

They sat together, in the quiet dark, for just a bit longer. It was comfortable, that silence. Finally, though, John stood and stretched, his knees cracking a bit, and then held out his hand to Sherlock. "C'mon then. Let's go see Camden; you'll feel better once you know he's OK."

Sherlock obediently stood as well, swaying a bit before John grabbed his arm to steady him. "When was the last time you ate?" said John, mildly alarmed. Sherlock's blinking pause told him what he needed to know. John marched over and pulled the door open, startling the PC who had been hovering outside. "Would it be possible to quickly rustle up some tea and a sandwich?" he asked.

The PC bobbed his head. "We've got some stuff down the hall if you'd like to come see," the young man said genially. "Nothing fancy, but better than that machine crap."

It _was_ better, actually. The room "down the hall" had several folding tables spread with an assortment of things—sandwiches, crisps, and soup, as well as tea or coffee. John led a slightly-wobbly Sherlock to a chair and the man thumped gracelessly into it, then rested his head on his folded arms on the tabletop. John bustled around, grabbed a sandwich, some crisps and tea (four sugars, to get that blood sugar up) and placed it in front of Sherlock.

John waited a full minute for a reaction, then finally placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sit up," he said gently. "Food will help."

Sherlock slowly unfolded himself from his arms and sat back in the chair, blinking a bit. When he still made no move towards the food, John nudged the sandwich towards him slightly. Sherlock looked down at it, then looked back at John. "If I eat that I will vomit," he said softly. "Take it away. Please." He shoved the plate a few inches, and then rested his head back on his arms.

John looked at the plate, uncertain what to do. He pulled the sandwich over in front of himself, then touched Sherlock again. "Sherlock," he said quietly, and waited for the man to uncurl again. "Have the tea first. That you _need_ to have. Then maybe some soup instead?"

Sherlock reached out, picked up the cup and took a sip. "What kind?" he asked, finally.

John got up and checked. "Tomato." And that was excellent news—Sherlock always asked for tomato soup and toasted cheese when he was ill.

It took a while, but in the end, Sherlock ate about half of a cup of the soup and a small packet of crisps. His color improved—no longer quite as corpse-like, though still very pale (even for Sherlock), and the dizziness seemed to have receded. He reached what seemed to be his limit for food, finally, and pushed his chair back slightly from the table.

John, taking this as his cue, stood and held out his hand to help his friend up. "So, ready to go see Camden now?" he said.

Sherlock simply nodded and stood up, ignoring John's outstretched hand. "The infirmary is this way," he said, and walked off, as usual not waiting to see if John was coming.

John was coming, Of course he was.

The infirmary wasn't far—perhaps a five-minute walk, which they made in silence. John was hesitant to say much—everything, right now, seemed fraught with potential for disaster. When they reached the doorway of the medical unit John stopped, and Sherlock, surprisingly, stopped with him. Although, when John thought about it, it wasn't that surprising—he knew Sherlock really didn't want to have this particular interview, even though he was anxious to know how Camden was.

"Would you like me to come in with you?" John asked finally.

Sherlock reacted with a flare of temper. "I can do this by myself. I'm not a _child_ , John."

"No," John said soberly. "If you were a child I wouldn't be giving you an option."

Sherlock almost visibly pulled his horns back in and dropped his chin. He didn't quite say he was sorry, but the implication was clear if you spoke Sherlock. "I, um, I would like to go in by myself," the detective said, very quietly.

John ended up staying in the hall; he considered walking back to see what Lestrade was up to, but didn't really want to leave Sherlock to his own devices. As it happened, Sherlock only stayed five minutes before walking briskly back through the infirmary door. He then took off down the hallway, heading back towards the exit, while John half-trotted along beside him.

"So how is he?" John panted, as Sherlock kept hurrying along.

"He's fine," Sherlock said blandly. "A large bruise on his forehead and a headache, but nothing worse. He was embarrassingly willing to forgive me." He paused a second, a sure Sherlockian sign of uncertainty. "I suggested that he may wish to accompany me on a private case or two in the future. He is not entirely an idiot, so it's a wise investment for the future. Lestrade won't be working cases forever, after all." He lowered his eyes and was suddenly extremely interested in the cheap carpet.

"That's a really good idea," John said, somewhat impressed. "He'll like that. It's a nice thing to do, Sherlock."

"It's entirely self-serving," Sherlock sniffed. "Simply a succession plan for Lestrade."

"No, it's not," John said amiably.

John drove Sherlock home; there was nothing left to do at the airport, since Sherlock (in the midst of all the other drama) had managed to solve the case. In the end, neither the senders, the corpses, nor the recipients had been important—it all came down to the ground transport company, who would collect the coffins to take them to their final "destinations". Very slick—procure an abandoned corpse, usually someone who died indigent with no known survivors. Set up a falsified set of documents to bring the coffin into the UK and buy passage for it on a plane flying to Heathrow. The transport crew would show up with documents authorizing them to pick up the coffin on behalf of the fictional recipient, and, as Greg Lestrade put it, "Bob's your uncle."

"Or your granddad," John couldn't resist interjecting. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

When they got to Baker Street John parked the car and went in. He had already decided that he and Sherlock were going to have another of their "chats" this evening—if ever Sherlock needed that, it was today. After greeting Mrs. Hudson and doing a quick recce of Sherlock's fridge (nearly empty, as usual, but for the odd body part and a large tub of chicken livers—John didn't ask), he decided to make a quick run to Tesco for the makings of a reasonable dinner. Takeaway was always an option, but he'd discovered over the past few months that Sherlock found the activity of cooking a meal somewhat soothing. He would willingly slice vegetables or peel potatoes with a minimum of fuss, while maintaining a civil conversation. It was odd, but welcome.

Mary showed up about three-quarters of the way through the creation of roast chicken and mixed veg. She sniffed the air and nodded approvingly, then held up the bakery box she had brought along. "I took care of the pudding," she said cheerfully. "You boys can do the rest of the work. The Tube was a nightmare." She dropped onto the sofa and put her feet up on the coffee table with a grateful sigh. "I hate the days when everyone decides they have flu and show up en masse," she groaned. "Ninety percent of them just have a cold, but there's always at least one that really does have the flu, and passes it on to the rest of them. We'll be swamped next week."

"Think of it as job security," John said philosophically.

"Could be worse—one of them could actually have plague," Sherlock chimed in.

"And on that cheery note, let's eat," John laughed.

They were most of the way through dinner when the doorbell rang, and Mrs. Hudson went to let someone in. John was surprised to look up and see Greg Lestrade in the doorway. And by the look of his face, he was definitely not bringing good news.

"Greg," Mary said warmly. "Come join us—there's plenty to go around, since Sherlock is apparently subsisting on carrots and the occasional sniff of the chicken on someone else's plate." She ignored Sherlock's scowl.

"No, thanks anyway," Greg said soberly. "I…look, I have some news. And since it's sort of my fault, I wanted to deliver it in person." He walked over and stood by the table and looked directly at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

"You know earlier today, when you…well, you were pretty upset, so you were out of it for a bit there," he began. Sherlock stiffened but kept quiet. "Camden's fine, don't worry. It's not that," Greg continued. "But you know that it wasn't just my people in the room, right? So the thing is, in the confusion, someone from the security staff of the airport took a photo of you, after..." Sherlock's face froze, while John and Mary both glared at Lestrade.

"Now don't worry," Greg added hurriedly. "It won't go to the newspapers; as soon as I found out about the picture I phoned your brother. He got that part taken care of. And I called the head of airport security myself—he found out who it was, and stood there while the man took the posting down and deleted the photo from his phone. But—"

"But it is already on the internet, and will be widespread by morning," said Sherlock in a deceptively disinterested tone.

'Yeah. Probably so," Greg said dejectedly.

Sherlock pushed back from the table and stood. "Thank you for letting me know, Inspector," he said in the most formal of tones. And while the other three watched helplessly, he walked out the door, down the stairs, and out of the building.

John's first instinct was to follow. But he quickly reconsidered; Sherlock wouldn't appreciate being treated like a child, and John knew from experience that leaving the man be for a bit to process emotion was sometimes the better option. It didn't make John feel any better about it, though.

Greg, however, wasn't prepared to be quite so sanguine. John watched as he pulled out his phone and typed a message. The wording made it clear who the recipient was: _**He's on the wind. Get the cameras working.**_

John and Mary were torn about what to do. Greg left shortly afterward, planning to reach out to a couple of his friends on the force to let them know to keep an eye out. John couldn't decide whether to stay at Baker Street and wait, or go home, or go look for Sherlock. (The last, he knew, was unlikely to be successful, but he nonetheless had a compulsion to _try_ ). In the end they went home; Mycroft had texted shortly after Greg left to tell John that he would contact them when Sherlock turned up, or notify them of any problem. They both knew what kind of "problem" was implied.

Shortly after they arrived home, John got another text from Mycroft. _**He's home; all seems to be well.**_ John immediately sent off a text to Sherlock.

 _ **You OK? We left the cake; you can share it with Mrs. H.**_

He waited twenty minutes, then sent another.

 _ **Everything all right? Please let me know. Mary worries.**_

Of course in this case John was the one doing the worrying. But the end result was the same.

 _ **Yes. SH**_

John breathed a large sigh of relief, and sent one last text.

 _ **I'm glad. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Try and get some sleep.**_

Even though it wasn't that late, John found himself exhausted. He and Mary were both in bed by 11, and happy to be there.

The phone rang at 2, jerking John into immediate alertness. From long habit, he picked it up and barked "Watson" while sitting up, groggy and irritated. There was a long pause in which he could hear someone breathing on the other end. He was just about to demand that the caller speak when—"John…" the voice was uneven, wobbling, but unmistakably Sherlock's.

"What's wrong?" John barked, as Mary sat up abruptly behind him. "Where are you?"

Another long pause, then—" _John_ …"

John vaulted out of bed, grabbing for his trousers while handing the phone quickly to Mary. She took the phone and said, in a concerned but professional tone, "Sherlock? What's happening?" She listened momentarily while John pulled frantically at his shoes, and her face, her voice, her whole demeanor suddenly changed. "Oh sweetheart, _don't_ ," she murmured, as her eyes welled with concern. John reached over and grabbed Mary's phone off the nightstand and dialed Mrs. Hudson's number, hoping against hope that the older women hadn't taken anything to sleep this evening. He was ecstatic when she answered on the second ring.

"Mrs. H., I'm so sorry, it's John," he began. She started to speak but he immediately interrupted her. "I need you to go upstairs and check on Sherlock right now. Call me back at this number immediately if he's not there. If he is, you do whatever you think best until I get there—we're on our way right now. If you need to call 999, do it—don't wait for me. We'll be there in fifteen minutes." He hung up as she was hurriedly agreeing.

Mary was still on the phone with Sherlock, but had managed to pull on a dressing gown and shoes, and was ready to go out the door with John's bag in her free hand. They swept out into the darkened street, where Mary handed the phone back to John as they climbed in the car. Mary drove—she was a much better driver than he. While John held on the phone and tried to get Sherlock to talk to him, Mary blew down the streets at twice the legal limit. They stopped for not a single light—John knew that, if need be, either Lestrade or Mycroft would take care of any tickets, and there were virtually no other cars on the road this late.

When they reached Baker Street, Mary whipped the car into a restricted slot in front of Speedy's and turned off the engine. The front door was still locked for the night—John, thankfully, had never removed his key from his keyring, so they quickly slid inside and up the stairs. As they trotted into the sitting room John looked around—nothing unusual to be seen, but no Sherlock. Suddenly he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice from the back of the flat. "John? Oh, thank God. Back here," she said tearfully.

John and Mary hurried through the kitchen and saw Mrs. Hudson huddled on one of the kitchen chairs in the hallway just outside the bathroom door. She was crying, and roughly swiping the tears away with one hand. "He's in here," she said softly. "I wanted to go in, but he wouldn't let me. At least he let me turn off the shower," she said shakily. John looked at Mary and jerked his head towards Mrs. H., and Mary took the cue to help the old lady up and back out to the lounge.

"Why don't you take Mrs. Hudson downstairs?" John said. "We'll be down after a bit." And he really, really hoped that was true.

John moved carefully to the bathroom doorway, afraid of what he might see. He wasn't really prepared for the reality.

Sherlock was huddled in the bathtub. He still wore the clothes he'd had on earlier that evening, but those clothes, and indeed all of Sherlock, were soaking wet. He was shaking violently, either from cold, or emotion, or both. At first Sherlock didn't seem aware that he was there, but when John stepped over the threshold Sherlock's head swung towards him.

He blinked, slowly. "John," he said. "I…you came."

"Well of course I came," said John stoutly. "I'll always come if you need me."

Sherlock gave him one of his unsettling stares. "I can't do this anymore," he suddenly said.

John felt fear grip his chest. "Do what, Sherlock?" he said gently. There was no reply; Sherlock continued to sit and shiver. Finally, it was too much for John, and he started to move towards the tub. "Come on, then," he said, and reached towards his friend.

To his shock, Sherlock recoiled. "No!" he shouted, and John froze. But then Sherlock came, tumbling out of the tub and scrambling to his knees on the damp floor. For the first time John could see his hands, and was horrified to note that one of them held a syringe. And the other—the other held a bottle of hospital-grade morphine.

That first look led John to look more closely, and to note the dilated pupils. Sherlock had taken some of that morphine. The only question was how much, and how long ago. He started to move forward again, only to have Sherlock shriek and throw himself against the back wall.

"I don't want to do this anymore!" Sherlock wailed. "I want to take it, John. I took some but I stopped. But I want to…I want to take all of it, John. Right now. I want it all to _stop_!" And he sobbed, and panted, and shook.

John was suddenly aware of how spectacularly, how disastrously out of his depth he was. He knew that this was beyond his help; all he could do at this juncture was keep Sherlock safe until someone with the right resources could step in. And for now, that meant taking that syringe and bottle. He quickly knelt, to put them on an even footing.

"Sherlock," he began, very quietly. "I know this is very hard. And I know you feel like nothing can help. But I need you to trust me on something. Can you do that, Sherlock? Can you trust me?"

There was a long pause. Sherlock, after his outburst, was feeling the effects of whatever dose he'd taken more strongly, and his head now drooped towards his chest until he managed to jerk it back up. He stared again, his breathing hitching like a child, and then finally spoke. "Yes," he said warily.

John was light-headed with relief. "OK," he managed to say. "That's good, then." He took a deep breath. "Then I need you to do something for me. I need you to give me that," and he pointed his chin towards the materials in Sherlock's hands. "Please. Will you give me that?"

Sherlock pulled his hands protectively to his chest. "No," he said, slurring a bit now. "I want it."

"I understand," said John, "I really do. But I can't let you have it, and I can't let you do this. You're my friend, and I can't let you do this." He was suddenly near tears himself. "Please let me help, Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock said again. But his speech was growing blurrier. "I can't…please, John. I can't." He couldn't say what it was he couldn't do, but John, sick though he felt, knew.

John held an internal debate with himself, arguing the idea of forcing Sherlock to give him the syringe and bottle. In his current condition it wouldn't be hard—overpowering him would be the work of moments. But that would endanger the one thing he knew he would need going forward—Sherlock's trust. He had a visceral feeling that that trust would be essential in the coming days.

In the end, Sherlock solved the dilemma himself. He suddenly took a gasping breath, and his eyes rolled up, and he slid to his side on the floor.

John launched himself over to his friend, rolling him quickly onto his back and checking his vitals. Satisfied, though not happy, with what he found, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number he knew by heart. When it was answered virtually immediately, he spoke.

"Mycroft. That therapist that Sherlock saw at your request? You need to get him over here right now. And you need to set up a place for Sherlock, tonight, at whatever inpatient facility MI6 uses for psychiatric emergencies." He paused and swallowed. "They need to have suicide prevention protocols in place."

Notes:

I know this was hard to read-it was hard to write, though it was necessary to the story. But the important thing here is, if you, or anyone you know, has thoughts of harming themselves or others, you need to say something. Tell a doctor, tell a priest, tell a friend. But tell someone.


	22. The world to dance

It had been a long time since John was on a locked psychiatric unit. In this case, the secure MI6 facility that was Sherlock's temporary home took "locked" to a whole new level. John had been forced to undergo both a cavity search and a retinal scan to gain entry. He consoled himself with the thought that at least a portion of the stringent security was probably designed to keep the wrong people out, rather than the right ones in.

It had to be said that this didn't look much like a mental hospital either. Much more like an expensive but very secluded hotel; tasteful, comfortable furniture, warm lighting, lovely hardwood floors underfoot. The real purpose didn't become apparent until you noticed the discreet, but visible, cameras that covered every square inch, and the thumbprint-reader locks on every fine wood door. The environment actually made John feel a little better; he knew how poorly Sherlock did in conventional hospital settings, with the non-stop ambient noise, high light levels and chemical odors overwhelming his already sensitive sensory organs.

Sherlock had been here three days now, with no outside visitors allowed. That was fairly standard, John knew, for an emergency admission after a serious attempt at self-harm. Dr. Arquette, the MI6 therapist Sherlock had initially seen on his return from his time Away, had told both John and Mycroft (who had shown up fifteen minutes after John's panicked call with Dr. Arquette in tow) that that time of isolation was essential, much though family and friends hated it. It gave patients the opportunity to focus solely on themselves, as well as time for medication to begin to show some benefit.

They had, of course, received progress reports. According to Dr. Arquette, Sherlock was doing fairly well. The initial diagnosis was severe depression, complicated by anxiety, stress and PTSD. Mycroft told John in confidence, however, that Sherlock had struggled at times with depression for many years; having lived with the man, John found that completely credible, if sad. In retrospect he wished he had been a little less willing to assume that all of Sherlock's black moods were the result of sheer bloody-mindedness, rather than a symptom of something more damaging.

John found himself increasingly anxious as his guide led him down the quiet hallway. He didn't know how he would handle seeing Sherlock looking like some of the patients he had visited in Afghanistan—hollow-eyed, vacant and listless. Knowing that some of that was the result of adapting to psychoactive medication didn't make it any easier to watch. And to see someone as brilliant, as vibrant, as Sherlock like that…

The charming female guide (who John was quite sure could disable him, kill him quietly and hide his body efficiently in a matter of minutes—this was an MI6 facility, after all), led him into a comfortable, warm sitting room. Nice brown corduroy couch, two sensible leather arm chairs—really very pleasant. John's spirits rose again—if the patient rooms were of the same caliber, he felt more assured about how Sherlock would be handling the physical environment, at least.

"I'm afraid I can't offer refreshments," she said apologetically. "You understand."

And yes, John did, though he really could have used some tea. Or maybe something a bit stronger.

After the guide excused herself and left, the door closed softly but with a tell-tale electronic click of the lock. There were probably very few doors in this facility that weren't so equipped. He poked around the room a bit, turning up some surprisingly recent magazines and a small but varied assortment of books on a side table. He was thumbing through a recent psychiatric medical journal when the door clicked again, and the guide came back—and Sherlock was with her.

John's breath left him with a whoosh, and then his face creased in the broadest smile he'd had in weeks. He was happy to see that Sherlock managed to smile as well—smallish, certainly, but definitely there.

"I wondered what time you'd arrive," Sherlock said, after they had looked pleased at each other for a bit. "Mycroft was actually here an hour or so ago. Made me play checkers with him." He paused, and the corners of his mouth lifted a hair. "He cheats."

John gave a crack of laughter, which was obviously what Sherlock had intended. "You mean he beat you," he chuckled.

"Yes. And we both know the only way he could have done so would be to cheat," Sherlock said airily. "He's always been an exceptionally poor loser."

John tapped a finger to his lips. "Hmm. Now who does that remind me of?"

"No one I know," Sherlock sniffed.

They settled into a brief silence while Sherlock settled himself on the couch. His movements were a little slow, a little careful. When he looked back up, John noticed that his eyes were just a bit glassy, and his hands trembled slightly. Predictably enough, Sherlock noticed John's look. He stared thoughtfully at his hands. "A mild side effect of my medication," he said clinically. "I'm told it should recede soon; it is better than it was two days ago, so I'm inclined to believe it." Sherlock looked briefly into John's eyes before his gaze skittered away.

"Yes, I am taking my medication," he said tersely. "No, I do not enjoy the way it makes me feel, but it is better than…" he faltered momentarily, then continued, "it's better." He looked back at John again. "I knew you would ask," he said simply.

"Thank you," John said. He thought for a moment, trying to edit himself to what was appropriate for an emotionally-fragile Sherlock. "Do you like Dr. Arquette? Mycroft said you had seen him before."

Sherlock frowned. "I trust him, which is rather more important." He was once again finding his hands fascinating. Eye contact was difficult, evidently. "We…he has had some similar experiences to mine, though not recently. It's easier to discuss my… these… um, this kind of thing when you don't have to explain a great deal about the circumstances." He looked up again briefly and gave John a curiously defiant look. "Some of it you already know, some of it you don't. And you won't."

John blinked. "That's fine, Sherlock," he said gently. "You don't have to tell me anything you're uncomfortable with, as long as you can share it with your therapist."

Sherlock didn't reply, looking back down at his hands. John thought he looked anxious; perhaps his medication was making it more difficult for him to mask his "tells". Speaking of which- "Have they talked to you at all yet about a treatment plan?" he asked, as much to keep Sherlock from retreating into his own head as anything else.

Sherlock clasped his trembling hands in his lap; definitely anxious, then. "After a fashion," he said, rather tightly. "Dr. Arquette has agreed to a round of medication that I will take for a defined period before tapering off. I told him that continuing any psychoactive drugs past the minimum required effective period would not be acceptable to me. He isn't convinced that this strategy will work long-term, but I've told him what I am willing to do." His eyes flicked to John again, that mildly challenging look.

John was going to regret this. He knew it. But it needed to be said. "Sherlock, don't you think that maybe a low dose of an anti-depressant would help you going forward? You've had some trouble with your moods for—"

"I do not have moods," Sherlock snarled. "I am very well aware that my extended periods of concentration may sometimes appear as, as depression. But that is very rarely truly the case. What is the case, though, is that my brain chemistry is not entirely neuro-typical. I have had an adverse reaction to every type of drug offered me since I was a child. They make me stupid, lethargic and anorexic. I will not subject myself to yet another trial-and-error process of trying to identify something that doesn't exist. I won't be …" He stopped speaking abruptly, his breathing quickly spiraling up. John, alarmed, got out of his chair and went to sit next to Sherlock on the couch. Panic attack, he thought immediately. "OK, it's OK," he crooned, rubbing Sherlock's back and placing his other hand firmly on his abdomen. "You know how this works," he continued. "Breathe with me. Try to match the rhythm. In. Out. In. Out."

Sherlock continued to gasp, hunched over his hands on the couch. When he started to show signs of fainting John quickly stood and hit the discreet call button by the door, then sat down beside Sherlock again, propping the long, bony body against his side. "I'm going to have them give you something to help," he said simply. "Now breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out..."

A male nurse came within a minute, pushing open the door and sizing up the situation in an instant. John asked what sedatives were included in Sherlock's medical orders, and then asked the nurse to get clearance to administer one. Sherlock continued to wheeze at his side, tense and frantic, until the nurse hustled back in with a syringe, flipped up the hem of Sherlock's soft t-shirt and shoved down the waist of his pajama trousers, then injected him with a minimum of fuss. John wasn't even sure if Sherlock was aware of it.

Five minutes later Sherlock was curled in the corner of the couch, head and eyelids both drooping. The nurse came back in; it was obvious it was time for Sherlock to return to his room. "Can I help?" John asked hesitantly. The nurse smiled. "Sure thing," he said, then walked over and gently pulled Sherlock up, lacing Sherlock's left arm over one muscular shoulder. "You can get the other side, Doc." John's head came up at that—apparently someone had told the staff about him. Sherlock, perhaps—but most likely Mycroft. He wasn't sure if he was pleased or annoyed. Pretty typical, with Mycroft.

Between the two of them, John and the nurse easily hauled Sherlock's slight frame down the hallway to one of the polished wood doors. The nurse placed his thumb on the reader and the door swung open, to reveal what seemed to be an up-scale hotel room. They tugged their patient over to the large bed and tucked him in. Sherlock was out like a light within seconds.

John walked with the nurse back to the nurse's station (that looked like a corporate conference room, but for the banks of electronic monitors arrayed along one wall). "I need to update his chart," the nurse said, picking up a small tablet computer and tapping away. He paused momentarily and stuck out his hand for John to shake. "Call me Brian, by the way. Did you need to ask something?"

John felt a bit at sea. "John. 'Doc' isn't necessary. Just…I know you can't tell me a lot. But how's he seem to be doing, really?"

"Better than when he came in," the nurse replied somberly. "It takes a while for the medicine to really kick in, most times. But he was looking forward to you and his brother coming today—that's a change. Didn't say much, of course, but you could tell. And, well, that's the first panic attack he's had in almost 36 hours." He smiled a bit. "Does that help?"

"Yeah," John said gratefully. "It really does."

John wasn't allowed to visit the next day—Dr. Arquette had messaged Mycroft to say that Sherlock should probably have another day of "no visitors" to give his medicine a little more time to work. He was surprised, then, to receive a call that next evening from Dr. Arquette, indicating that Sherlock would like John to come the following day as early as possible.

"Is everything OK?" John asked carefully. He was relieved, then, by the doctor's reply.

"Very much so, I think. This is something of a positive sign." Dr. Arquette paused, then spoke again in a way that indicating he was choosing his words carefully. "I don't want to over-share. But this particular visit is the result of a session Sherlock and I had, and I think he hit on something that may be helpful to his recovery."

It was clear the therapist wasn't going to tell him anything more; John was, perversely, happy that he wouldn't. Good indication of professional ethics, that. He still remembered Mycroft's illicit possession of Ella's therapy notes years ago—he never really had forgiven the man for that. Not that Mycroft cared about that, of course.

John arrived at the facility (via one of Mycroft's luxurious cars again—he wasn't officially permitted to know exactly where the facility was, so he couldn't travel on his own. Not that that was a hardship, under the circumstances) at a little past 9 the next morning; he intentionally left a little later than he had first thought since he wanted to give Sherlock a chance to have breakfast and his morning meds. Today things went a little differently—he still had to have a pat-down and retinal scan, but no cavity search. And he was pleased to be met with a familiar face to act as his guide—Sherlock's nurse, Brian.

"Well, how are things going?" John said, a little apprehensively.

Brian gave a quirky smile. "Now, don't laugh. He's been pretty, well, sulky today, for lack of a better word. I know that wouldn't normally be a good thing, but he seems much more able to kick up a fuss without losing it. Wouldn't eat most of his breakfast this morning, and then complained about being hungry." He furrowed his brows a bit. "Does that make any sense to you?"

John gave a crack of relieved laughter. "God, yes. The man could sulk for Britain under normal circumstances. That's much more like his old self."

Brian beamed. "I thought so! He just doesn't strike me as the 'rainbows and kittens' type, you know?"

John choked on a giggle. "I'll have to quote you to a friend of ours. He'll piss himself laughing."

Brian led John back to the comfy meeting area down the hall from Sherlock's room. "I can't bring any hot beverages," he said apologetically. "But we have all kinds of juices, or water."

John shook his head. "Just had breakfast, thanks. If you have any cider, though, Sherlock would probably drink it." He caught himself. "Only if it's allowed—any special dietary issues that would create?"

Brian laughed. "The only issue with that one is actually getting him to eat. I threatened him with a liquid meal replacement last evening—that's the only way I got him to eat part of his dinner." He paused in the doorway. "I'll bring back some apple juice—close as I can get, I'm afraid. He'll be here shortly."

Five minutes later Brian pushed the door back open. He had two bottles of juice and a bottle of water in his hands, and Sherlock standing beside him. Brian dropped the bottles on the small table next to the leather chairs as Sherlock edged around him to come fully into the room. "I'll be back in an hour or so, unless you need me," Brian said politely, then nodded at John and closed the door.

Sherlock gave John one of his small, real smiles and dropped onto the couch with a slightly-theatrical thump. "Thank you for coming so early," he said. "It was either this or occupational therapy," he continued with a sneer.

"Oh, God," John gasped and then grinned, a sudden memory of his post-injury rehab coming back to him. "Don't tell me—leather work?"

"Even worse. Basketry," Sherlock said darkly.

"Well, good job I came, then. I don't think the world is ready for any basket you might weave," John said with a smirk. "I can see it now—you using different colors to insert rude messages or something."

Sherlock looked much struck. "That's…an interesting idea," he said slowly. "Thank you, John."

"They're going to hate me," John moaned.

"A novel change from hating me," Sherlock sniffed. They gave each other a conspiratorial grin.

Things were off to a much better start than the first visit. John knew, based on what Dr. Arquette had told him, that Sherlock had something he particularly wanted to discuss, but the detective seemed in no hurry to get there, and John wasn't going to rush him. Sherlock drank some of the juice with every indication of enjoyment (after telling John that breakfast had been inedible, and he was "actually hungry, John!"). Apparently porridge without honey was "horrid", and toast with butter rather than jam, well, really.

John suddenly realized he had spent the past ten minutes smiling like an idiot. It was such a relief to see hints of the old Sherlock—snarky, entitled and oddly endearing (though of course John would never mention that last bit). Sherlock noticed his sudden silence and gave him a slightly hesitant smile in return. "Yes, I'm feeling somewhat better," he said suddenly. "You're far too polite to ask directly, though I'm sure you wanted to."

John nodded. "You're right. I did want to know. But," and here he smiled again, "you didn't really need to tell me. I can observe, you know. Trained by the best."

Sherlock's cheeks pinked a bit. He suddenly found his lap interesting. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight.

"I know that Dr. Arquette told you that I asked you to come today for a reason. I've been…I…there's something I think I need to tell you about."

John leaned forward. "Of course. You can tell me anything, Sherlock. You know that. Or not tell me—that's fine too. Whatever you need." He tried to put every ounce of conviction possible in his voice.

Sherlock was staring at his hands again, which were now clasped tightly in his lap. "You didn't…when I…you said you didn't want to know," he finally said in a rush.

"Then I was wrong," John said simply. Sherlock was silent, biting his lips. "Sherlock. Look at me," John said finally, when Sherlock still showed no inclination to speak. Sherlock's head slowly came up, and John was looking into distressed pale eyes. "I want you to listen to me, and believe me," John continued. "There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that you should be afraid of telling me. I mean that."

"I'm not afraid," Sherlock flared briefly. But then the hesitation was back. "I tried. Before. And you said." He ran out of steam abruptly, his breath hitching just a bit. Then he took a wobbling breath and continued. "We need to talk about the roof."


	23. To keep from my lips the cup of death

_June_

 _Barts Hospital_

 _It was very strange. As John slammed out of the laboratory on his way to comfort the "dying" Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock struggled to identify exactly what he was feeling. Regret, certainly—he could no longer remember how long it had been since he didn't feel regret about what was coming. For someone who had rarely encountered that emotion in the past, it was both eye-opening and traumatic. It hurt._

 _He wasn't sure if one could really distinguish clearly between regret and sadness—each had elements of the other wrapped inside of them, but he could nonetheless say that there was a difference. He regretted lying to John, making him believe Sherlock was heartless; he regretted possibly, probably, having to leave London. Of the 13 scenarios he and Mycroft had worked out, 11 involved a lengthy time in hiding. The thirteenth—he would not think about the thirteenth. But he was sad, not regretful, about the idea of leaving, and everything that was going to mean. He was sad about the utter inevitability of it now, and what it would mean for the future, if he had one. And while he didn't care what the world at large thought of him, he was sad, truly sad, at the idea that he would need to convince John of Sherlock's utter falseness. That what they'd had, who they'd been, had been a sham all along. Even if, as he hoped, the lie would be of short duration, the idea of it was awful._

 _Right now, though, something else entirely was taking center stage. And that something was fear—sheer, pulsing terror, in fact. He was terrified of Jim Moriarty._

 _He had realized over the past few months that what was so unsettling, so frightening, about Moriarty was his utter unpredictability. While under normal circumstances that would have been fascinating-people that Sherlock couldn't read, couldn't anticipate, were vanishingly rare—the sheer malevolence and cold, lethal insanity underlying Moriarty's smooth façade horrified Sherlock on a visceral level. There was a fundamental wrongness there, leading to an atavistic reaction of revulsion—a mind of that calibre lacking any shred of humanity. Until the pool, Sherlock had been able to shove that awareness down in favor of admiration of Moriarty's mind, and the elegant games it created. He had even, occasionally, wondered if he and Moriarty had an opportunity to, well, not engage, exactly, but compete, so long as no fatal damage was done. Sherlock believed firmly in detaching himself from human feeling, human weakness, for the sake of the Work. That didn't mean he lacked those things, merely that he intentionally repressed them for a higher purpose._

 _The face-to-face meeting, however, had demonstrated to Sherlock how unforgivably stupid he had been, to assume that someone willing to detonate blind old ladies for the sake of a game would acknowledge any boundaries at all, or be in any way daunted by the idea of death, on any scale or from any whims that might strike. Mycroft's warnings, as soon as he understood what was really underlying the "interrogation" sessions with Moriarty, had only reinforced Sherlock's dread._

 _Dread—that was an accurate term as well. Dread, though, he was intimately familiar with—he had dreaded many things in his life. In this case the only difficulty had been the sheer duration of the dread—it was exhausting to feel this level of negative expectation for weeks on end._

 _And it was ironic that, other than Mycroft, the only one who had realized that something was terribly wrong with Sherlock had been Molly—small, stalwart Molly, who dared to tell him what she had seen. Molly, who had been startled at his appearance last evening, but never hesitated in offering her help (and, he suspected, her heart, though there was nothing he could do with that except break it). She had tried, so hard, so hard, to convince him to tell John. In the end he'd had to just walk out; if the argument had continued he feared losing the rigid control he was maintaining over himself. He didn't want to hurt her, and he didn't want her to see him lose that essential control. The wobble in his voice when they first spoke was bad enough._

 _He texted Mycroft on his way up the stairs to the roof. It's begun. He received an immediate, somewhat uncharacteristic reply. Understood. Godspeed._

 _Stepping out into the sunshine on the roof was dazzling after the shadows of the stairwell. His eyes struggled briefly to adapt and he squinted a bit as he spied Moriarty sitting on the ledge at the far side. His phone was playing the same obnoxious pop tune that rang across the pool._

" _Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem." The smaller man held the phone up. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" He punched the phone theatrically and the music stopped, while Moriarty glowered. "It's just ...," he slid his hand along in a floating motion, " ... staying." He lowered his head briefly into his palm as Sherlock walked towards him warily. Sherlock was exerting every ounce of his concentration to read him, to try and anticipate. It didn't work any better than it ever had with Jim._

" _All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you," Jim said, bitter and triumphant at once. Sherlock forced himself not to react. Resisted the urge to pace, and tucked his (slightly shaking) hands in the small of his back._

" _And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy," Jim sneered." "Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary, just like all of them." He rubbed his face again while Sherlock forced himself to remain quiet. "Ah well," he sighed, in a mocking version of resignation. Then he stood and started to circle Sherlock, while Sherlock watched his every move, fearing a weapon, fearing a bomb, just … fearing._

" _Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?" Moriarty chortled slyly._

 _Sherlock knew it was time to engage. "Richard Brook," he said simply._

 _Jim smiled. "Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."_

" _Of course," Sherlock said, in as superior a tone as he could muster._

" _Attaboy," Moriarty murmured._

" _Rich Brook in German is 'reichen bach' – the case that made my name." Sherlock didn't believe that – he had had a 'name' in police and criminal circles long before Moriarty slithered into view – but catering to the madman's vanity was the best way to gain information at this point. It was essential to learn, in detail, what mechanisms Jim had set into motion. And the best way to do that was to lead him to boast. The frailty of genius, as he'd once told John._

 _Jim smirked. "Just tryin' to have some fun," he said, in a cartoonish American accent. He was still slowly circling Sherlock. Sherlock decided it was time to add the next bit of theater, tapping his fingers rhythmically behind his back._

 _Moriarty saw, of course. "Good. You got that too," he said, as if praising a particularly bright toddler._

" _Beats. Like digits," Sherlock said. Jim must believe that Sherlock had bought into that so-obvious charade at Baker Street. So obvious, in fact, that Sherlock had only realized last evening that Moriarty actually wanted him to think it real. Insulting, really—Jim had to know how staged that had looked. But if Moriarty thought him that gullible, so be it. "Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."_

" _I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy," Jim said smugly. He was clearly reveling in his cleverness._

 _Sherlock pointed at his head. "Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty." He gave his words a triumphant ring. He had to play this very carefully; too much and Moriarty would twig to the plans Sherlock and Mycroft had crafted._

 _Jim suddenly turned away, moaning in mock despair. "No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy, " he moaned, dropping his head into his hands. "This is too easy." He lowered his hands and spun back around. "There is no key, DOOFUS," he screamed at Sherlock, that intrinsic madness shining through again. "Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless."_

 _Sherlock painted an expression of frowning perplexity on his face._

" _You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears?" Jim said in a scolding tone. "I'm disappointed." He mimed a plodding, round-shouldered cretin. "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."_

 _Sherlock was well into his performance now. "But the rhythm," he stammered obligingly, his forehead creased in confusion and distress._

 _Jim threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "'Partita Number One.' Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach!"_

 _Sherlock was quickly tiring of his role as the Village Idiot. "But then how did…" he began._

 _Moriarty overrode him, speaking in almost manic fashion. "Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" He spread his arms wide, as if asking the world to witness this profound stupidity. "Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants." He strode back towards Sherlock, pointing his finger in an accusing manner. "I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever."_

 _Jim continued, in a terse, almost angry tone. "Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building—nice way to do it."_

 _And just like that, most of Sherlock's options vanished into the wind, and his long-dreaded exile was assured. Well, assuming he survived. To cover his momentary distraction as he mentally recalculated, he assumed a stunned, confused demeanor. "Do it? He said uncertainly. "Do—do what?" He blinked several times, to add a little color to his performance. This was, after all, very much a stage play, for an audience of one._

 _Now he adopted a mode that, ironically, fit with what he was truly feeling, though not quite for the reason Moriarty thought (or at least Sherlock hoped that was the case). He stared out over the horizon and said "Yes, of course. My suicide." The sadness in his face and voice were not faked, not at all._

 _Jim was enjoying himself now. "'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales," he said slyly._

 _Now Sherlock's focus moved to learning as much as he could, in the limited time he still had, about exactly what Moriarty has in place—what mechanisms would target Sherlock and those he cared about. Because that had been obvious all along—if Jim planned to "burn the heart out of" Sherlock, simply shaming him in the newspapers wouldn't be enough, and Jim knew it. Which meant that those people important to Sherlock were definitely in danger._

 _Sherlock walked to the edge of the roof and leaned forward to look at the ground. He was faintly aware that Jim had moved over to look as well, but he was more concentrated now on getting a good look at the (potential) landing spot, and trying to shove the fear back down. Because he was afraid. He had done every preparation possible, including two long sessions with a professional stuntman to train. But even the stuntman pointed out that the odds of survival, with the bag, with the muscle relaxant the stuntman had insisted he take, with the training, with perfect conditions, was at best 50% for a fall from this height. He was shaking now. He considered trying to hide it from Moriarty, but then realized it fit into what Jim wanted to see._

" _And pretty Grimm ones too," Jim continued. He turned his head and gave Sherlock a hard, black look._

 _Sherlock decided that a push-back was in order. "I can still prove you created an entirely false identity," he said, with the air of someone grasping at straws._

 _Jim was exasperated now, bored with this pro forma response. "Oh, just kill yourself," he sighed. "It's a lot less effort."_

 _Sherlock started to turn away, to keep from responding the way his instincts suggested. But Moriarty was now more determined than ever to make this farce, rather than tragedy. "Go on," he urged. "For me. Pleeeeaaase?" he squealed, and just like that the rein Sherlock had on his temper snapped. He spun around and grabbed Jim's lapels with both hands and propelled him half-way over the edge of the roof. He was seriously, seriously considering Option 13. The one over which he and Mycroft physically came to blows, for the first time in a number of years, because Mycroft simply wasn't prepared to accept it as a possibility. The Scorched Earth policy, in which neither he nor Jim walked away._

 _He gave Jim another shove, bending him partially over the edge. A look into those black, soulless eyes revealed only mild interest. "You're insane," Sherlock blurted out. Jim blinked at him, perplexed. "You're just getting that now?" he said, clearly amazed._

 _The rage swept through Sherlock again and he bent Moriarty far back over the edge, while Jim flailed a bit and whooped like one of the Three Stooges. But abruptly that black gaze focused again. "OK, let me give you a little incentive," Jim said. Sherlock frowned to mask his inner elation. This, this was what he needed._

" _Your friends will die if you don't." Jim snarled._

 _Sherlock had to get confirmation of who was targeted. "John," he gasped. Jim, delighted, continued in an intense near-whisper. "Not just John. Everyone."_

 _Sherlock continued staring into those mad eyes. "Mrs. Hudson," he said._

 _Jim smiled broadly and whispered "Everyone" again. He was clearly finding this tremendously entertaining._

 _Sherlock offered what he hoped was the final name. If Mycroft was also targeted, things would get very complicated indeed. "Lestrade," he said._

" _Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now," Jim said triumphantly. Sherlock pulled him back from the edge of the roof—Option 13 was off the table, even if he had been really inclined to take it. "Unless my people see you jump," Moriarty snarled._

 _Sherlock gazed past Jim towards the edge of the roof, his face bleak. Jim loved that expression—he believed now, more than ever, that he'd won. "You can have me arrested," he said. "You can torture me; you can do anything you like with me. But nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die, unless..."_

" _Unless I kill myself," Sherlock almost whispered. "Complete your story."_

 _Moriarty beamed and nodded. "You gotta admit, that's sexier," he said, waving his hand enthusiastically._

 _Sherlock couldn't stop staring at the edge. "And I die in disgrace," he said despondently. He allowed the true despair he felt at his limited options show on his face. Let Jim think the disgrace mattered to him._

" _Of course," Moriarty said, in a chastising tone. "That's the point of this." Jim looked below and saw that there are now people roaming the pavement below. "Oh, you've got an audience now," he said, pleased. "Off you pop." He made his bizarre head-rolling motion, like some great evil snake. "Go on."_

 _Sherlock reluctantly climbed up on the ledge while Jim watched. "I told you how this ends," he continued, as Sherlock stood on the ledge, looking down and shaking. He couldn't stop. "Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers," Moriarty said evenly. "I'm certainly not gonna do it." He paced back over and looked up at Sherlock expectantly._

 _Sherlock blinked, and took his chance. "Would you give me…one moment, please? One moment of privacy?" He looked down at Moriarty, who seemed a bit taken aback. "Please?"_

 _Jim was clearly annoyed that Sherlock was being so pedestrian, but had no real reason to refuse—he was, after all, getting what he wanted in the end. "Of course," he finally said in a lofty tone, as he wandered back towards the center of the roof._

 _Sherlock quickly hit the prearranged buttons on the mobile in his pocket, the mobile that was also recording this entire conversation. A text flashed to Mycroft: Lazarus. And then another, 3. Moments later he felt the phone vibrate with what he was sure was an affirmative response. The wheels were now in motion._

 _But, while he stood shaking and waiting and looking below, Jim's last statement filtered through his head again. And as he realized what it meant, his face cleared, and he chuckled._

 _At the sound, Moriarty stopped and spun around as Sherlock continued to laugh. "What?" Jim barked furiously. "What is it?"_

 _Sherlock turned on the ledge and smiled widely at Moriarty. "What did I miss?" Jim snapped. Sherlock hopped lightly off the edge and walked right up to Moriarty. "'You're not going to do it,'" he quoted. "So the killers can be called off, then—there's a recall code, or a word, or a number." He circled Jim now like a predator. "I don't have to die," he continued, "if I've got you," ending in a sing-song tone of delight._

 _But Moriarty is, oddly, delighted as well. "Oh," he cooed, then laughed lightly. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"_

 _Sherlock continued to stalk him. "Yes," he said simply. "So do you."_

 _Jim sneered. "Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."_

 _Sherlock loomed over Moriarty now, very close indeed. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" he said, with utter conviction. "I am you—prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in Hell? I shall not disappoint you." He meant every word._

 _Jim shook his head disbelievingly. "Nah. You talk big," he sneered again. "Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary—you're on the side of the angels."_

" _Oh, I may be on the side of the angels," Sherlock snarled. "But don't think for one second that I am one of them."_

 _Moriarty stared, those blank, dark eyes searing into Sherlock's. Sherlock stopped breathing momentarily, waiting to see which way this would fall. Jim suddenly blinked, then closed his eyes. Sherlock found himself doing the same, the relief making him light-headed. When he opened them he saw Jim beaming at him, a bizarre glow of warmth in his eyes._

" _I see," Moriarty burbled. "You're not ordinary. No. You're me". He gave a happy little laugh. When he spoke again his voice was high and delighted. "You're me." He paused momentarily, as if pondering this. "You're me. Thank you!"_

 _He thrust out his right hand, reaching out to shake Sherlock's. Sherlock was suddenly wary, but wasn't sure why. "Sherlock Holmes," Jim said, the hand still proffered. Sherlock slowly raised his own hand and took it._

 _Moriarty's head bobbed quickly. "Thank you. Bless you," he said, in a fervent tone that Sherlock found profoundly disquieting. Jim blinked and lowered his head briefly, as if fighting tears._

" _As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out," Jim said evenly, still nodding, still holding Sherlock's right hand captive. "Well, good luck with that," he said abruptly, and pulled out a silver pistol, shoved it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger, a mad grin still on his face._

 _Sherlock was never able, later, to remember the next ninety seconds. He had brief flashes; remembered throwing his hands over his head in horror, not at Moriarty's death but at what it meant for their plans. Their plans, that always included Mycroft following Moriarty after Sherlock "died", using that sham to allow Sherlock and Mycroft to work together to end him and his organization. Another flash—he suddenly realized that the wind had spattered tiny bits of blood and brain matter across his chin and mouth. His stomach contents made a violent surge for freedom, and he threw his hand up to his mouth in reaction._

 _When next he was consciously aware of what he was doing, he had stepped back up onto the ledge, still shaking and now aware that the jump was inevitable. John's arrival, when Sherlock had hoped that he would be delayed long enough that the phone call would reach him still at Baker Street, was horrifying, but he had no choice. The call was agony, for both of them. He finally reached a point where he knew he must end this—the watchers wouldn't wait forever, and if he continued he would be sobbing in moments. He couldn't resist giving John one clue, one clue he prayed that John, steadfast John, would remember once he calmed. And then he dropped his phone, and held out his arms, and flew._

 _The fall itself was fast, so fast. He saw the ground hurtling towards him; couldn't look at John, needed to find his spot on the bag. He counted in his head, just as instructed, and flipped himself onto his back just in time to hit the bag. He landed properly, but a bit off-center. The bag tilted to the side and there was a tremendous blow to his left arm as he landed, not completely on the air-filled surface. He ignored it, concentrating on rolling off completely and following his waiting crew to take the place of the waiting corpse._

 _There then followed the most horrible minute of his life—listening to John's hopeless moans, unable to react, to help, to stop this. It was as well that John knew he had been weeping on the roof, or the reflexive tears would have given him away. Quickly, then, the "medics" picked him up and placed him roughly on the gurney. He was dimly aware of some pain, but nothing agonizing. Most of the pain he felt was not physical; he feared no medication would make this stop. The worst, the very worst, was John's sigh of despair as he left, left John, left their life. Dying couldn't possibly be this hard._


	24. Do, O my brother, as thou desirest

June

Barts Hospital

 **Notes:**

You're seeing a bit of my head canon here. Anthea HAD to have been in on the secret. There's no way that Mycroft could have personally made all of the arrangements that needed to be made without raising questions-but Anthea certainly could. There also would have been no way for Mycroft to have continued to be the support behind the scenes on his own, without attracting deadly attention.

The second part is that I think Anthea knows and likes Sherlock. She's clearly been with Mycroft for some time, which means she almost certainly ended up as Assistant Sherlock Wrangler a time or three. And it's clear from the way they interact in TEH that they know each other, and seem somewhat fond of each other.

Chapter Text

 _The day his brother "died" was the second-worst day of Mycroft Holmes' life. Not because of the necessity to respond appropriately to the well-meant offerings of condolences, the offers of help, the careful handling he, as the "bereaved", apparently required. The worst part (after the terror of that awful half-hour when he did not know if Sherlock had actually survived his fall) was knowing that, at its heart, every bit of this was his fault, and that there was absolutely nothing he could do to redeem the situation._

 _It wasn't often that he made miscalculations—he was, after all, known for the very deliberate pace of his decision-making for a reason. In this case, though, the miscalculation was of such a staggering magnitude that it shook the foundations of his inner self-worth. He had been criminally remiss, both in underestimating the malignant abilities of James Moriarty at the outset, and in not rectifying his error, with extreme prejudice, before the madman endangered the life of his baby brother._

 _He should have listened more closely to Sherlock. That initial fascination should have been the clearest of indications that this attraction that Moriarty had was deadly, and that Sherlock's infatuation with the cleverness of it all would ensure that he continued to engage throughout the ever-escalating scenarios._

 _He should have followed his instincts (much though he normally descried such reactions) and had the man killed, quickly and quietly._

 _Now, though, the only action he could take would be to do his utmost to keep his brother alive, healthy and marginally sane throughout the ordeal to come. He doubted, though, that Sherlock realized yet just how much of an ordeal this would be._

 _He reached St. Bart's roughly 45 minutes after Sherlock's leap. He couldn't leave his office until he had been officially "told" of the tragedy, though he had received both Sherlock's texts and, an excruciating 30 minutes later, another from Molly Hooper, a simple yes, letting him know that Sherlock was in her morgue, alive._

 _Anthea, the only other person aware of the plot, quickly ran interference, cancelling all of his appointments and ushering his well-meaning co-workers out of the way while he sat in his office "composing" himself. In reality he had phoned his parents on a secure line, to let them know that the plan was in play, and that Sherlock was alive. For his parents, that had been the greatest fear—that something would go wrong with the leap and Sherlock would die in truth._

 _Anthea drove him to Barts herself; Mycroft didn't know if he could have borne lying to Andrew, his long-time driver who had known Sherlock since his brother was a teenager. He would be able to later, of course, but he was painfully aware that he was not at his best today. Knowing the leap was not fatal helped, but he had no idea of his brother's state of mind. Sherlock was, in some ways, surprisingly fragile._

 _He left Anthea with the car, parked behind the hospital building near the morgue entrance. He felt a trickle of guilt when he saw the police tape and technicians working around a spot just next to the ambulance entrance, but made no comment._

 _Pasting a somber expression on his face was not difficult; although he was not grieving in the conventional sense, he nonetheless felt grief for what had happened. His equilibrium was shaken when he reached the last corridor to the morgue and saw Greg Lestrade standing vigil at the doorway. They had never been friends, exactly, but they had shared a common goal for more than 5 years now, and from Greg's point of view they had just failed, in spectacular fashion._

 _Lestrade was distracted, clearly, and didn't notice Mycroft until he was nearly to him. Then his head shot up, and his brow creased, and his face worked. "Oh, God, Mycroft. I am so fucking sorry," he moaned. His eyes filled and he put his hand over his mouth._

 _Mycroft was profoundly disconcerted to feel his own eyes prickling, for no reason he could understand. "I…it wasn't your fault," he managed to say. It was, in some small measure, but it would serve nothing to say so. If not Lestrade, Moriarty would have found some other pawn to achieve the same end._

 _Greg shook his head. "Molly has…I told my folks not to let anyone else by until you came. She's with him," he choked, his voice utterly wrecked. He reached out and tapped on the door, and a subdued Molly Hooper soon opened it. When Lestrade tried to enter with him, though, Mycroft put a restraining hand gently on his arm. "I should like…I need to do this by myself," he said, surprised to hear the hoarseness in his own voice. He had to stop him—Lestrade could not be in on the secret, not in light of what was almost certainly to come for him. Yet another thing Mycroft added to his list of things to feel guilty for. For someone who lived a life filled with expediency and pragmatism it was a rare and unpleasant experience. Guilt, an unaccustomed burden, tasted greasy and vile._

 _Greg, thankfully, just nodded his head and moved back without argument._

 _Molly Hooper moved silently away so he could enter, then relocked the doors behind him. She had been crying, it was clear; she was not one of those women who could do so prettily, and her face reflected the strain of the past day. Mycroft looked around the room for his brother, and saw nothing. He turned and looked inquiringly at the pathologist._

" _Oh," she said. "He's not…I put him back in the storage room. I have the only key. He wasn't…" she looked at him earnestly, her brows knit. "He's not doing very well," she said, on a hitched breath._

 _Mycroft couldn't subdue a frisson of alarm. "He was hurt?" he said carefully._

 _She shook her head uncertainly. "I don't think so, but he wouldn't let me check. But he's, he was, he was very upset," she stammered. "I thought…there's a mattress in the storage room that I use sometimes when I'm running tests very late. After a bit I got him to lie down on it. He was very shocky." She wrung her hands and rocked from one foot to the other in agitation. "Maybe you can get him to let me check him over?"_

 _Mycroft gave her a magisterial smile. "Thank you, most sincerely, for your help, Miss Hooper. Can you take me to him?" he asked, as if inquiring about a scheduling change of some sort._

 _The distant tone worked. Molly gave herself a little shake and gestured for him to follow, then strode off through the rear doors to a dimly-lit corridor. At the end was an unmarked door; she took out the key and handed it to him. "I'll be out front," she said simply, and walked away._

 _The room, when Mycroft opened the door, was quite dim, lit only by a small lamp on the wall. He saw a lump against the far side sitting on the mattress and addressed himself to it. "Sherlock?" he said, in a careful, quiet tone. The lump rustled and shifted position a bit. Mycroft smelled blood, fairly strongly, and a slight undertone of vomit._

 _As his eyes adjusted, Mycroft could see his disheveled brother clearly, sitting with his back against the wall and his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. "Are you all right?" he said hesitantly._

 _The answer was a bitter laugh. "What do you think?" Sherlock said roughly. There was a pause, then he continued in a more-subdued tone. "How is John? And the others?"_

 _Mycroft moved forward and crouched in front of his brother. He could see, now, how far from "all right" he was. He had wept at some point, his fair skin blotchy and pink. But his face was obscenely obscured by the dried blood that trailed from his hairline and across his cheeks and chin. His pupils were dilated, both by the dim light and from the high-strength muscle relaxant still present in his system._

" _John is under care upstairs," Mycroft said quietly. "He has a mild concussion, so they will keep him overnight. I have already set up surveillance for when he is released, as well as for your other friends. Inspector Lestrade is out in the hallway; he is distraught but physically well. His sniper is dead, as is the man targeting Mrs. Hudson." He paused momentarily, unsure if he should impart the next bit of news while his brother was still so obviously impaired._

 _To give himself a bit of time to consider the matter, he rose and walked to the small sink at the back of the storeroom, wetting a towel in warm water before returning. "Here," he said, holding out the damp towel. "Wipe your face." There was no sound or movement from his brother, still wrapped tightly in his coat despite the warmth of the room. Mycroft sighed, then knelt beside his brother and wiped his face, scrubbing at his hairline a bit before putting the now-stained towel aside._

 _He continued to debate with himself, while Sherlock blinked slowly and breathed. Sherlock looked up, though, and finally spoke. "There's something else. What is it?" he said, his speech slightly slurred._

 _Mycroft sighed again. There were times when his brother's powers of observation were not an advantage._

" _The third sniper, the one assigned to John, is on the run. He killed the agent tracking him and escaped. It is critical that we find him—it was Moran." He heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath. His brother moved slightly, made an abortive attempt to get his legs under him, and subsided. Head down, he cleared his throat and said, very, very quietly, "I need help to get up. I am apparently having a reaction to the muscle relaxant."_

 _ **Yes**_ _, Mycroft thought to himself._ _ **And one or two other things as well.**_ _Aloud, though, he said none of that. He rocked back on his heels and stood gracefully, holding out his hands to his brother. When that brought no reaction, he leaned forward and put his hand under Sherlock's right elbow and lifted firmly. His brother stood momentarily, before his eyes fluttered, his knees went, and his entire weight suddenly fell into Mycroft's arms. It wasn't until that point that Mycroft saw the large bloodstain on the mattress, underneath where Sherlock's left arm had previously been._

 _The next few minutes were somewhat fraught. Mycroft, after carefully lowering his brother back down on the blood-stained mattress, hurried back to the front to enlist the help of Molly Hooper, who looked aghast at the size of the stain but snapped into action nonetheless. Between them, they cut Sherlock's coat and shirt sleeves off to expose the left arm (Mycroft flinched when he saw how sodden with blood the left coat sleeve was, the dark fabric having been an effective camouflage, and again when the scissors cut away fabric and exposed the small slice of bone protruding through the skin of Sherlock's forearm)._

 _Molly gaped at the bone as well. "That's…very bad," she said faintly. "That's going to require surgery, and that can't happen here, can it?" she asked. At Mycroft's quiet "No" she carefully handed Sherlock's limp arm to his brother to support and stood, then rummaged on the storeroom shelves for supplies. She came back and had Mycroft hold the arm in place while she poured a liquid antiseptic over the wound, wrapped and padded it liberally with gauze, followed by a hard plastic brace, and then wrapped the entire arm closely to Sherlock's chest for additional support._

 _Once Sherlock was laid back down, Molly and Mycroft considered their options. The original plan had called for Sherlock to be secreted in the outgoing laundry, while a coffin with the look-alike corpse made its way to the funeral home in a temporary casket. Their parents had already left to go into seclusion in France with Uncle Rudy, so the funeral was to be held in London rather than Surrey._

 _This most-recent calamity, however, called for a complete reworking. Mycroft called Anthea inside and explained the situation, while Molly bundled up the stained clothing and leftover bandage material into a medical waste bag for disposal._

 _In the end, as always, the solution presented itself once Mycroft had the opportunity to consider the matter closely. The lookalike body went into the laundry, but the "laundry truck" belonged to the security services, and was re-routed to follow the vehicle with the casket. Sherlock was heavily sedated and loaded into the casket (with air holes strategically arranged, out of view but functional), and the route was revised to take the "remains" to Surrey after all. Ten miles out of town in a secluded lay-by, Sherlock was removed from the casket (which then continued on, with the lookalike inside, to Surrey) and placed on the rear seat of Anthea's car. A "medical emergency" was then declared that led to the arrival of a medical response crew. That crew picked up Sherlock, now "Agent Scott", and drove him to a landing pad from which a helicopter flew him to the MI6 medical facility near Sevenoaks. Mycroft couldn't follow, of course—he had to remain in London to deal with funeral planning. Mycroft did not see his brother again for almost two weeks._

 _Sherlock hated waking up in hospitals. They all smelled the same. They all had the same nausea-inducing lighting; they all had too many machines ticking, beeping, chirping without ceasing. In this case it was also disorienting, since he simply could not remember how he got here. He had waited, eyes closed, for nearly five minutes trying to make some sort of connection in his memory. The last thing he remembered was speaking with Mycroft in the storeroom at Bart's. Granted, in his memory that conversation had a hallucinatory quality to it—apparently he had a very low tolerance for muscle relaxants. But he didn't remember any kind of injury; some pain, certainly, but nothing out of keeping with the magnitude of his fall into the bag. The stuntman had told him that strained muscles and ligaments were inevitable, after all._

 _He finally opened his eyes; memory was a dead end, so external information was required. Unfortunately, that proved just as useless. A hospital room; not Bart's, going by the paint scheme and upscale furniture. Not likely that he was being held captive, either—no criminal would expend this kind of funds on a glorified cell._

 _He was, however, under some form of video monitoring. Within two minutes of opening his eyes, Anthea (or "not-Anthea", as John liked to call her) opened the door and strode in. "Finally," she said. "You've been asleep for the better part of a day now. Your brother was getting very anxious." She smiled. "I would ask you how you were feeling, but going by your eyes, you're not quite sure yet, are you?" She noticed his convulsive swallowing and hurried to offer him some ice chips from the table next to the cot._

 _Sherlock sucked a bit, then frowned. He hated feeling slow, but this was like thinking through syrup. "Why am I here?" Another long, slow pause before another thought bubbled up. "Where is here?"_

"' _Here' is an unnamed medical facility that doesn't officially exist, near Sevenoaks," she said breezily. "You're here because you had surgery yesterday afternoon on your left forearm." She gave him a stern look. "You don't believe in half-measures when it comes to injury, do you?"_

 _Sherlock just blinked at her. "Oh," she said finally. "That will be the anesthesia. Your brother said you don't metabolize it well. You should be feeling more yourself in a few hours." She reached into a bag Sherlock hadn't noticed she was carrying. "In the meantime, I need to catch you up to date. Nothing too complex yet—you'll just forget it. But I can give you the basic structure." She pulled a comfortable chair over and sat next to the cot. "Let's start with this. What do you remember from yesterday?"_

 _Sherlock swam through the sludge in his brain. "The roof. You could hear as it was recorded?" he asked. Anthea nodded. "Then Molly…the morgue. I was in a room, on a mattress. And then Mycroft was there." He strained for anything more and came up empty._

" _Well, that gives me a baseline," Anthea said briskly. "To summarize, since you may or may not remember all of this: Moriarty is dead, you and all of your friends are alive. You landed slightly awry and your left arm apparently impacted the pavement. Compound fracture of the ulna with considerable blood loss. The surgery was uncomplicated; you now have a metal plate in your arm, but you'll be fine with a bit of physical therapy. Two of the three snipers are dead; we will speak of the third when you're a little more yourself." She paused a moment. "Your parents are in France; they know you survived, but don't know of your injury. Mycroft thought it best not to tell them."_

 _Sherlock agreed with that, certainly. He did remember the meeting at which he and Mycroft had explained what was coming. It had been years since he'd seen his mother cry; it hadn't gotten any easier to bear._

" _John and Mrs. Hudson have gone back to Baker Street. They are under both physical and electronic surveillance, and will be for the foreseeable future. Mrs. Hudson's sister has come to stay for a time." She checked her Blackberry quickly. "Inspector Lestrade has been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation." She heard Sherlock's quick intake of breath at that. "You knew that would happen, my dear," she said gently. "We discussed this."_

 _Sherlock did know, yes. But the combination of surgery, general anesthesia and, he now realized, a really delightful level of pain medication had eroded his normal emotional filters to a degree._

 _Anthea sighed. "There's just no point in having this conversation right now, is there?" Sherlock blinked at her; was that a rhetorical question, or did she expect an answer? It was very difficult to be sure, especially since his eyelids seem to be getting exceptionally heavy. It was distracting._

 _She leaned over and placed her palms on either side of his face, tilting his head up until he had no choice but to look at her. "You really must remember one thing before you go back to sleep, Sherlock. Your name now is Will Scott, and you must respond only to that name. You are an MI6 agent normally stationed in Budapest. Can you repeat that for me?"_

" _Will Scott," Sherlock slurred dutifully. "Budapest." And then he lost the battle with his problematic eyelids._

 _The next time he woke things were very different. Judging by the filtered light coming through the blinds it was now late afternoon. Someone, presumably a nurse, had just deposited a dinner tray next to him; his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch at the thought, so he immediately abandoned any idea of touching it._

 _His thought processes were much improved. He still had that pleasant floaty feeling that came only from excellent drugs, but it was no longer piggy-backing on the remnants of the anesthesia. He remembered an earlier conversation with Anthea—he was now Will Scott, from Budapest. And his friends were alive and, if not well, at least safe for the moment. There was clearly something looming that Anthea had intended to share, but his earlier confusion had precluded that._

 _Speaking of—just at that moment the PA swept back into the room. "Thank God," she sighed. "I was afraid I was going to have to spend another night here." She looked interestedly at his dinner tray, removing the covers to reveal what looked like restaurant-class cuisine. She gave him a critical look. "Would you like some of this?" His not-entirely-fake gag was a good enough answer. She pulled the tray over next to her and got out the silverware, while pushing a cup of juice in his direction with a pointed glance. He picked it up and took a cautious sip, then put the cup aside to see if it stayed down before taking any more. Anthea opened a laptop on the side of Sherlock's cot and began, talking and chewing in a wholly unselfconscious way. They had known each other a long time, after all._

" _Do you remember your brother telling you about the third shooter? The one assigned to John?" she asked, while working on a slice of chicken in sauce. Sherlock thought about it a bit; yes, he did remember Mycroft saying something about that. Something, something— "Moran!" he gasped. "It's Moran, and he got away."_

 _Anthea nodded her head while she swallowed, then continued. "Yes, unfortunately. The good news is, we're positive he hasn't left the country. The bad news is, that means John may still be at risk." She saw the look on Sherlock's face and hurriedly continued. "Relax. He's not leaving Baker Street at the moment." She gave him an apologetic look when he flinched. "Sorry. But we have every confidence that we can protect him in the short run—Moran will have gone to ground, waiting to find out what really happened. No one knows yet what became of 'Richard Brook', after all—no autopsy has been posted yet and the press hasn't gotten wind of the body being found since the rooftop scene was strictly an MI5/MI6 purview; we're delaying that release of information as long as we can. Obviously when he doesn't hear from Moriarty within the next few days, Moran will reach his own conclusions about that. But it does give us time to plan, and you time to heal a bit."_

 _And Sherlock would need that time, unfortunately. He looked now at his left arm, and noticed his fingers, swollen like a cluster of sausages peeking out of the bandages and soft splint. He tried moving them experimentally and jerked—even through the haze of morphine it hurt. He sighed._

" _Let that be a lesson to you," Anthea said smugly. "Wait until your doctor tells you before trying to move it." She had now moved on to the slice of cake, savoring every bite, evidently. "This is very good. You'll like the food once you get to feeling better."_

 _She pushed the tray back and recovered the plates, then pulled the laptop forward. "Now I'm going to leave this with you. There are a number of files here for you to study—the most important being your cover identity, obviously, which you need to memorize as soon as possible. There's also a complete dossier, up to date through today, on what we know about Moran and his movements since yesterday. That will be out of date by the time you get out of here—" she looked up and caught his eyes—"which will be roughly a week from now, just so you know." Sherlock scowled. "Not my fault," she said airily._

 _Sherlock sipped moodily at his juice while she slid the laptop up onto his table that extended over the cot. "Um. Sherlock," she started, and he raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "I also left you a special gift, but you mustn't tell Mycroft that I did it. He'll be very cross if he finds out." She opened the laptop and pointed at the screen with her chin while she opened a nondescript icon to one side, marked "photos." And what popped up was an app that would give him access to the voice feed from 221B._

 _She started bundling up her things while Sherlock stared at the screen. "Voice only, I'm afraid—both live and taped, your choice. The video goes through a second router, and it's too difficult to access this way. You have to promise me to limit the use," she said firmly. "It's monitored on the other end occasionally—I just have a back-door link, so don't be obvious." Sherlock nodded distractedly. She sighed. "I'll be back in two days. We can talk about tactics at that point, and I'm sure I'll have messages from your brother to pass on. I'm on record as your handler, so it's fine to contact me. Use the laptop, but be circumspect about what you say." Sherlock lifted his head and glared at that stupidity. She ignored it. "You already have an email account set up in your cover identity. Once you access the cover story files, they will erase as soon as you close them. Make sure you close the internet connection before you look at them, and don't open it again until you're done." This earned an eye roll. "All RIGHT," she snapped. "I know you know. But I still have to say it. Deal with it." And at that she finished gathering her things, gave him a quick (and unexpected) peck on the check, and swept out._

 _The next 36 hours were busy. Sherlock was routed to various therapy appointments, tests, x-rays, and all of the other ills associated with a serious injury. He was pleased to hear that his time in a cast would be minimal, most likely 2-3 weeks—the advantages of the inserted metal plate. He was less pleased when his therapy, which started shortly after Anthea left, was both painful and lengthy. The morning after Anthea left his morphine drip was removed and he was placed on oral medications, which meant that the pleasant floaty feeling dissipated quickly once therapy began._

 _That afternoon, then, he hurt, at a moderate but unrelenting level. He had already memorized all of the files on the laptop. He hesitated briefly—no matter what Anthea thought, he did have some common sense when it came to unauthorized computer access—but the siren call was too strong. He clicked the link, and found himself listening to John's voice. And what he heard made him close the link, and then send an urgent email to his "handler"._

" _No," said Anthea as soon as she pushed the door open at lunchtime the next day. "You are not going to be well enough to make that kind of trip in two days' time. And the funeral was only this morning—your brother won't even have the stone in place until sometime tomorrow, which means there might well be reporters still lurking about when John shows up on Thursday."_

" _I am going," Sherlock said bluntly, with an expression anyone who knew him well recognized and feared. "With you or without you." He dropped his chin and looked up at her through his lashes. "Though it would be more comfortable with you," he said quietly._

 _Anthea snorted. "Does that ever work with anyone who knows you?" she asked snarkily. "I have helped pull you out of many a scrape, Sherlock Holmes, and I know when you're having me on. Save the puppy eyes for your adoring public."_

 _Sherlock's face froze, and she realized what she'd just said. "Oh, Christ," she sighed. "That was a horrible thing to say, even if I didn't think. I'm sorry, dear heart." Sherlock gave a jerky nod, but said nothing. After an uncomfortable minute or two Anthea have another sigh, a resigned one this time. "God, I'm going to regret this, but I feel so guilty now I have to say yes, don't I? Your brother will never let me live it down." She looked at Sherlock sternly. "We can do this on one condition. You let me speak to your doctor, by myself," she said, giving him a minatory eye, "and make sure it's not going to cause you serious problems." Sherlock nodded, pleased._

 _Two days later, Sherlock was carefully bundled into the back of one of Mycroft's cars, driven this time by an agent he had never seen before. Anthea climbed in after him and helped him get settled, bundling the extra pillows under his bandaged arm and sling and setting the bag of snacks, water and medication on the floor between them. He was in pain, but eager to be on the way. He had long since decided that pain was preferable to confusion, and was pragmatic enough to know that taking opiates any longer than he had to was a dangerous thing to do. He liked morphine, far too much for his own mental comfort._

 _The trip took roughly an hour. Sherlock enjoyed it, to a degree. Anthea had always been good company (well, away from his brother's repressive influence, anyway)—he never had to pretend around her. They had a lively argument about martial arts styles that their driver also joined after a bit—not really a problem, but a good reminder for Sherlock that he was "Will" now, and he needed to order his speech accordingly._

 _They reached the cemetery in good time—Anthea had checked in with the surveillance team, who confirmed that John and Mrs. Hudson had just passed the last cross road leading up to the entrance. Their driver followed Anthea's directions and parked on a side access road next to a large group of evergreens. Anthea got out, and carefully helped Sherlock out as well. She insisted on walking him out to his observation point—he had discovered, once he was able to get out of bed, that the stuntman had been quite right, and he had a number of ligaments in his hips and knees that were badly stretched and very painful when walking. He tried to ignore her, but when he tripped on a tree root and almost fell he was embarrassingly grateful for her quiet presence._

 _They finally reached a quiet spot next to a narrow opening in the trees. In front of them, no more than twenty feet away, was a handsome black stone with gold lettering. Just his name—Mycroft apparently thought that was all that was required, under the circumstances._

 _Sherlock found himself oddly uncomfortable. Seeing that stone, with his name on it. Anthea, who knew him well, picked up on that. "It was very expensive," she teased, gently. "I made him opt for the black granite. I almost talked him into an angel," she said, and grinned. After a second, Sherlock managed to smile back._

 _And then he caught his breath—two figures were walking slowly towards the monument. He moved deeper into the shadow of the trees, close enough to hear but not be seen. He looked pleadingly at Anthea, who shook her head but walked away, leaving him alone._

 _He couldn't quite hear all of the conversation—Mrs. Hudson was a bit teary, so it wasn't clear. But then she walked away, sobbing, and John was alone._

 _Sherlock listened, dimly aware that John would be horrified to know that he was overheard. He remembered distantly something his mother would say during the (many) times Sherlock was apprehended listening in on private conversations as a child— "eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves." But that wasn't true now, and it was painful to hear, and he shouldn't have come. He shouldn't have._

 _When John turned sharply on his heels, came to attention, and then marched off, Sherlock stayed for a moment, unsure what to do or what he felt. Then he wanted, urgently, to be gone from here. He started carefully back towards the car on his own, knowing that Anthea would be upset with him for risking a fall and not caring a bit. When she came bustling up and put her arm around his waist he didn't object. She didn't speak, either—apparently something in his face warned her off._

 _It was a silent ride back. Sherlock was in pain, and agitated (he couldn't define why) and desperately unhappy. He saw Anthea shooting him worried looks, but she kept her own counsel and occupied herself with her Blackberry for a time. When they were nearly back to the facility, though, she couldn't bear it any longer. "Are you glad you went?" she asked hesitantly. He thought for a moment, and answered honestly. "No." And the conversation died there._

 _When they got back to his room, the driver helped him undress, and he refused dinner, and juice, and any other kind of sustenance, Anthea kissed his cheek and left._

 _And shortly thereafter, when the nurse offered him morphine, he took it._


	25. Keep Off All Evil Eyes

_It was very odd being a ginger again. Sherlock did remember it (though Mycroft insisted he didn't)—his hair didn't start to get darker until he was 3. But to look in a mirror and see dark red hair, straight as a stick, coupled with his now-hazel eyes was like looking at one of his French cousins—slightly familiar, but definitely not "Sherlock". The lifts in his shoes that gave him an extra inch in height also made a noticeable, but subtle, change, as did the gold-rimmed spectacles. In his experience, this was often the most successful form of disguise—just enough difference so that an onlooker would dismiss the similarity to a known individual as being coincidental. A variant of "hide in plain sight", in a way._

 _"That's very effective," Anthea said smugly. "I told you it would work better than blond. You'd look entirely too albino with blond."_

 _Sherlock nodded absently, poking at his new, un-curly locks. "I bleached my hair as an experiment when I was 14. My mother said I looked like a large white rabbit."_

 _"I love your mother," Anthea chortled. "Doesn't mince words, that woman."_

 _"She prefers to mince people," Sherlock said. "I've tried several times to get Mycroft to send her in instead of a strike team. Be just as effective, and much quicker."_

 _"Oh, stop," Anthea said repressively._

 _Sherlock was finally released from care as of yesterday evening, and he found himself feeling both apprehensive and energized. His physical state was not 100%-he still had significant pain in his arm, and his dexterity was not on a par with his normal abilities. But he had been fitted with a light cast, his stitches had been removed, and his physical therapy was now his own responsibility._

 _He watched Anthea flitting about the hospital room, ostensibly helping to gather up his things (most of which were new, delivered in the past few days), but largely simply moving everything from one spot to another. That was suspicious—she only dithered when she was trying to avoid talking._

 _"What is it that you're reluctant to say?" he said abruptly. "We don't have time to waste on sensibility. Presumably it's something I won't like."_

 _Anthea frowned over her shoulder and twiddled with his carryall handle. "I hate it when you do that," she sighed. "You're supposed to let me work myself up to it before you slap me down."_

 _"Saving time," he snapped. He wasn't really in the mood for teasing at this point._

 _Anthea looked at him sternly. "Convalescence makes you cranky. I remember. But what's Anthea's Number One Rule?"_

 _The beginnings of a reluctant grin twitched at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "Rudeness Does Not Work," he said. That reached far back into their shared past, when Sherlock had been a mouthy post-grad student and Anthea a newly-minted intern in Mycroft's offices._

 _She beamed. "You see, you_ ** _can_** _learn."_

 _He plopped himself down on the edge of the cot and assumed a visage of restrained patience. "Please, Ms. Holder," he said with exaggerated care, "could you share the information you are concerned about?" He blinked his eyes anxiously for a final touch._

 _Anthea snorted. "You're entirely too good at that," she laughed. "But, well…it might come in handy, actually." Sherlock raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "You're going to have to work with a partner," she said in a rush, and then theatrically stuck her fingers in her ears and closed her eyes._

 _'Oh my GOD," Sherlock snarled, suddenly furious. "Not again. Mycroft knows better. You know better. I do not 'play well with others', and I have no intention of chaining myself to some half-witted minion while I'm trying to do the most important job of my life. No." He stood up and started cramming clothing into the carryall, only to stop with a whine when he bumped his tender, casted arm._

 _"Enough," Anthea said. She came over, lifted the sling that was currently hanging loose and empty around Sherlock's neck, then gently slid his painful arm into it. He gave a little huff, irritated at the continued frailty of the transport. But he recognized that he was being unfair to Anthea—she had been a lifesaver this past week, keeping him nominally sane through his forced inactivity. "Thank you," he said reluctantly. She looked up at his discontented face. "Are you ready to listen now?" she asked softly._

 _He sat back down on the cot, frowning but silent. She dropped into the chair beside him._

 _"You need to think of this as if you were not Sherlock Holmes. You are Will Scott, MI6 agent for the past 5 years. And MI6 agents do not work alone when they're involved in investigations of large organizations—there are always support people involved, some behind the scenes and others in closer support." She looked at him steadily. "You can't afford to act differently from every other agent, no matter how brilliant you are. That, in and of itself, would raise eyebrows and potentially attract the attention of the wrong people."_

 _Sherlock was listening, though not happy about it. Much though it galled him, it had the ring of truth. But… "There's more to this than mere appearances," he said, thinking out loud. "You have specific concerns that go above normal internal mechanics." Her sudden silence was its own answer. The corollary was obvious. "You have a mole," he said, as he realized what she really meant. "And you think the mole was attached to Moriarty, or at least his organization. Otherwise you wouldn't be that concerned about me specifically."_

 _Anthea nodded. "We're sure there's at least one, if not more. Your brother ran two test scenarios in the past two weeks. One was designed to flush out a mole in the general administrative ranks—information potentially available to a limited pool of people under normal circumstances, but not a need-to-know-only level. The hidden flags were tripped within 2 hours."_

 _Sherlock thought through the ramifications of that. "So the presence of a mole is definite, and that mole is somewhere in the IT ranks, most likely." That was obvious—someone with considerable expertise in subverting security routines and setting trap doors in the systems._

 _"Yes," Anthea confirmed. "As you always say, 'so far, so obvious'. But the second scenario was more elaborate. In that case an actual operation underway in Spain was compromised while the field agent was out of contact with everyone except his direct handler, who is both unequivocally loyal and aggressively adept at security measures. Luckily, since this was Mycroft's test, there was actually a back-up on site who was able to rescue the agent and secure the target."_

 _Sherlock thought about that for a bit. "So the implication is that there is also someone who has access to mission planning detail-not an IT drone, since that kind of information isn't usually committed to system storage until after the mission is complete." And that, thought Sherlock, would alarm his brother, since it meant that Moriarty's people had been capable of successfully subverting a senior-level MI6 executive. Which also meant that it was entirely possible that at some point, MI6 people and resources had actually been undertaking missions to serve Moriarty's purposes, rather than the Crown's._

 _And that, thought Sherlock, was a very bad thing indeed, since the one thing he and Mycroft had both counted on, in envisioning this crusade of his, was the ability to piggyback on MI5 and MI6 resources. If that wasn't possible, things suddenly got substantially more difficult, and the timeline expanded dramatically. "So, what—I'm to help you root out the moles first, before going after Moran? I have to tell you I am unlikely to be convinced of the necessity of that." And he meant it—keeping John and the others safe had been his primary concern in all of this, and he wouldn't be derailed from that because of his brother's security issues._

 _"Well, as it happens, our aims run together on this. Because we're pretty sure that the MI6 high-level mole takes his orders directly from Sebastian Moran. So if we can craft a trap that will take out one, we can take out both if we do it properly," Anthea said cheerfully. "It's grand when things work out, isn't it?"_

 _The plan, such as it was, had been hastily assembled, and to Sherlock's jaundiced eye, rested on far too much speculation and far too little concrete data. He had spent the last twelve hours running obsessively through everything contained on the memory stick Anthea had presented him with, before depositing him and his things in the nondescript flat now assigned to "Will Scott"._

 _The only truly verifiable piece of information in this morass was the knowledge that Sebastian Moran was currently listed as the senior executive of a large shipping operation that regularly transported exotic automobiles across Europe for delivery to their new owners. He wasn't operating under his real name, of course, but it was him—facial recognition technology had picked up his photo under the senior management team tab of the firm's website._

 _Sherlock had put considerable thought into why Moriarty's second in command would have involved himself in an import-export business for hideously overpriced vehicles. He had done some surreptitious digging in a variety of police databases and discovered that at least some of the vehicles had probably been stolen and then shipped from Britain to continental buyers. But that couldn't possibly be the whole story. Certainly it was a means of generating large amounts of cash quickly, and Moriarty's operations always needed that, but that didn't explain Moran's involvement. That kind of work would normally have been undertaken by a run-of-the-mill criminal who cut his teeth in moving stolen cars from point A to point B._

 _His speculation was abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door. Sherlock came out of his meditative state to look somewhat dazedly at the clock, and was surprised to see that it was just past 1 am. This couldn't be Anthea—she had been quite emphatic that Sherlock would not see her for another 48 hours when she left, since she had to go attend to her "real job" (and, as Sherlock pointed out snarkily, soothe his brother's feathers, which were no doubt severely ruffled at her extended absence)._

 _The knock came again, quiet but persistent. Sherlock set his laptop aside, removing the memory stick and sliding it inside his cast against his palm. After a second's consideration he also picked up the pistol Anthea had reluctantly left with him ("you're a terrible shot, Sherlock!") and placed it carefully in his sling, out of sight but within easy reach. At the last second he also snatched the spectacles off of the coffee table and put them on before cautiously opening the door a crack._

 _The man at the door was carrying a large pizza box, though he was clearly not a delivery boy. Quite tall, medium-brown curly hair, a pleasant but forgettable face—until one took a close look at the sharp blue eyes. Sherlock was suddenly aware that he was receiving the same kind of scrutiny as he was giving the new arrival, and the other penny dropped. "Let me guess," he drawled. "Delivery for Anthea?"_

 _The man's face creased in an appreciative grin. "Well I hope not, since she's the one who sent me to get it and bring it here." He paused expectantly, then huffed. "Going to let me in, mate? Pizza's getting cold, and I suspect you and I have a thing or three to discuss." He looked over Sherlock's shoulder into the bland flat. "Got some beer?" he asked hopefully. But he made no move to enter until Sherlock reluctantly moved aside. Reluctantly, because he realized, with a sour note to the thought, that this was his new "partner"._

 _The tall man walked in confidently, dropped the pizza on the coffee table and stuck out a large hand. "Gabriel Austin. Better known as Gabe." Sherlock took the hand and shook it firmly. "William Scott. Better known as Will." He gave his new partner his best Normal People Grin and was taken aback when the man frowned in return. "You really need to work on that, my man. You'll scare the children." Sherlock drew back. "Personal interaction is not my strong point," he sniffed._

 _"No shit," Gabe said, with no particular animosity. "Anthea said you didn't go into the field all that much, right? So you're a maybe little out of practice with the whole 'reassuring smile' thing. We'll work on that." He wandered into the kitchen and found plates, then slid pieces of pizza onto each and held one out to Sherlock, who took it in a slightly-bemused way. The tall man then plopped himself down on the ugly brown chair across from Sherlock._

 _"So what else did Anthea tell you?" Sherlock asked stiffly. He was all too aware of being the less-informed person in the room, and while he could certainly deduce a fair amount about this man (though not as much as he usually could, of someone he'd just met—Austin was apparently a better-than-average agent, going by that fact alone), he had no way of knowing what information Anthea had shared._

 _Gabe chewed a bit before he responded. "I can give you the thumbnail sketch if you'd like, or the full tour. Whichever you'd prefer." He gave another one of those "I'm-basically-harmless" grins, which in Sherlock's experience usually meant exactly the opposite was true._

 _Sherlock's chin went up. "The full tour, by all means. If she's been indulging in character assassination, I'd prefer to know it now."_

 _The grin faded a bit, to be replaced by a disconnect between eyes and face as Gabe assumed a distracted stare. "William Algernon Scott. Born in Durham but moved to Somerset at age 4. No siblings, parents alive and well but estranged. Age 28—29 next month. 6 feet and 1¼ inch. Agent for a little better than 5 years, mostly in Eastern Europe. Winchester, then Oxford. Expertise in languages, cryptography, chemistry and electronics, though not a hacker. Highly proficient in two separate martial arts forms—you'll have to spar with me, I'm dying for a good match—but a truly awful shot." He pulled out of his stare and the grin was back. "Which means you can pull that gun out of your sling—by all accounts you'd be more likely to hit yourself than me." Sherlock, to his annoyance, found himself flushing. He wasn't_ ** _that_** _bad a shot, after all. Ricochets could happen to anyone. And it only happened the one time._

 _He curled his lip slightly at Gabe as he fished out the pistol and dropped it on the coffee table, only to have the man gasp and lunge for it. "Safety, man, safety. Put the fuckin' safety on before you go dropping it. Jesus." He shoved the pistol into his own pocket while Sherlock glowered. He ignored Sherlock's ill temper and slid back into the chair again. "Let's see, what else. Would you like me to list your school results? GSCEs? Medical history for the past 5 years?" He grinned at Sherlock's stony expression and subsided a bit. "Probably the most relevant thing is, I know what happened to your arm, and to your previous partner." He looked Sherlock right in the eye. "And I'm really fucking sorry."_

 _Sherlock debated trying on a few tears—he knew the harrowing story Anthea had made up about his injuries, and his partner's tragic demise. But he didn't want to overplay things, and he felt oddly uncomfortable in playing his new partner, who, though arrogant, seemed sincere enough. He settled on a crackle in his voice and downcast eyes. "Thank you," he near-whispered._

 _Gabe gave himself a little shake and ran his hands through his hair. "So, what now? What would you like to know about me?"_

 _And Sherlock knew it was unwise, knew he shouldn't do it. But—"You don't need to tell me a thing. I'll tell you, shall I? And before you ask, no, Anthea hasn't given me any information about you to speak of." He stood up and started pacing the small living room._

 _"You've been in intelligence services for the past 12—no, 13 years. You are 40 years of age, though you look much younger. You are 6 foot 4 inches tall, and played rugby at university; perhaps considered a professional career before doing permanent damage to your left knee. You still play occasionally but are finding the physical demands harder than they used to be." Sherlock caught Gabe's wince out of the corner of his eye. "You have worked with a variety of partners and in a variety of locations, but prefer to stay in Britain as you do not learn foreign languages easily. You did not go to a public school, but attended Cambridge, on a scholarship, most likely." He paused, as if thinking things through. "And you would like very much to have sex with Anthea."_

 _He expected a gasp, or a denial. What he got was a lazy smile. "Shit, man. Who wouldn't?" Gabe said easily. "But where did you get the rest of that? Not saying you're wrong, mind you. Just don't think most of that is in my file."_

 _"I told you, I haven't seen your file. It's what I do," Sherlock said smugly. "I notice things."_

 _"I'd say so," his new partner said mildly. "But next time you might want to notice that carrying a loaded pistol in a sling with the safety off is a good way to lose an arm."_

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's what I have you for, don't I? Since clearly I'll be the brains and you'll be the brawn in this operation." He thought about that, though, while Gabe gave him a mildly-offended look. "Though you and I do have more in common than it would initially appear. Eidetic memory, yes?"_

 _The tall man nodded. "Mostly. Though for whatever reason, it doesn't work worth a damn on foreign languages, at least trying to speak them. I can read anything, just can't get it out of my mouth."_

 _"We're even," Sherlock said absently. "Mine rarely tells me when something is intended as a joke, and when someone is serious." He dropped abruptly back onto the sofa—he wasn't yet 100%, and it had been a very long day. "I'm assuming you already have a proposal for our entrée into Moran's operation. Give me just the high points—I need to sleep, soon." He found himself rubbing at his arm—he was overdue for pain medication again._

 _Gabe sprawled back in his chair, spreading his arms expansively as he yawned. "Well, we could just go in, guns blazing, and kill everyone."_

 _Sherlock blinked. "You remember what I said about me and jokes?" he offered cautiously._

 _Gabe chuckled. "I said we_ ** _could_** _do that—I didn't say we_ ** _would_** _. But what I think we will do is, let's go and steal some cars. How's that sound?"_


	26. Meaning to Do Thee a Good Turn

_Sherlock hated not knowing how to do things. Always had. He had made it his mission in life to learn any skill he might someday have a need for, just so that (and this was the issue, at its heart) he never had to ask for help, ever._

 _So it was somewhat galling to sit in his boring flat the following morning with Gabriel Austin and have to confess that no, he did indeed not know how to drive a manual transmission vehicle. Mycroft had offered to teach him when he first learned to drive, but Sherlock had turned him down because, well, Mycroft. And for whatever reason, another opportunity had never presented itself, and Sherlock had been fortunate enough never to need that particular skillset._

 _Until now._

 _"Seriously?" Gabe asked again, in an insultingly incredulous tone. "I thought every teen-aged boy learned that at some point. I mean, didn't you ever want to be ready just on the off-chance that someone asked you to flog a Jaguar or the like 'round a circuit?"_

" _I grew up in deepest Somerset," Sherlock sniffed. "Nowhere near a 'circuit'."_

 _Gabe shook his head. "Really not the point. It wasn't ever going to actually happen to_ _ **any**_ _of us—didn't stop us from wanting it to, now did it?" He gave Sherlock a disapproving look._

 _Sherlock felt himself flush, and despised it. This was all too reminiscent of his school days, when anything other people liked was incomprehensible, and anything Sherlock liked was 'weird'. He only just managed to stop himself from verbally annihilating his erstwhile partner, reminding himself firmly that this was a means to an end, not an enduring relationship._

 _Better option—change the subject, quickly and firmly. "So, now that we've established my complete lack of interest in being a typical teen-aged boy, can we move on to what exactly makes that relevant? I presume you were intending me to be a driver in your car theft scheme. Not really the best use of my talents, and…" he held up his casted arm and gently waved it, "I think this would make my driving problematic at best."_

" _Well, true enough," Gabe said amiably. "And to be honest, I assumed I'd be the primary driver anyway. But I'm sure we'll have times when a backup will be helpful. I may have to enlist a ringer or two." He settled back comfortably into the couch, while Sherlock paced methodically back and forth, unable to sit still. The anxiety was back, a bit—he needed to do something, anything, to move this process along. He'd actually hoped to go through this briefing last night, until the older man stopped abruptly after Sherlock's third yawn, shooed him towards the bedroom, then kicked off his own shoes and curled up on the couch._

 _Now, after a Spartan breakfast of tea and dried-out scones, Gabe pulled out his phone and texted briefly, then handed Sherlock the laptop from the side table. "Here, open up the link I just sent you. It's easier for you to visualize it if you have a starting point."_

 _Sherlock sighed and took the laptop, perching on the corner of the table. The website was for an auto rental firm, specializing in exotic and high-performance vehicles. He skimmed the basic information, then raised his eyebrows at his partner inquiringly._

" _So," Gabe began. "We know that Moran is the head of an import/export firm, handling this same type of vehicle—Maseratis, Lamborghinis, that lot. We also strongly suspect that the shipments are being used to transport both illicit materials and, in at least one case, highly-sensitive information. Three weeks ago, one of the cars began leaking unknown fluids while being unloaded from the train at the far side of the Chunnel in Calais. It was pulled from the delivery and taken to an impound yard where it could be held until someone ponied up money for clean-up of the train and potentially the train lines themselves, depending on what was leaking."_

 _He pulled out his phone and showed Sherlock another picture, this time of a poison-green exotic car sitting in a damp chain-link enclosure. "The impound mechanics started opening the engine up to find the source of the leak. But like a lot of these high-end vehicles, this one had extremely sophisticated computer controls. So the technicians hooked up monitors to check for error messages and the like. And all of a sudden, the damn car exploded. Killed one mechanic outright, injured two others. Lots of carnage, fire alarms going off everywhere, police on their way within minutes." He flipped to another picture, showing the same site, but this time there was no car—just a flash-burned space, surrounded by bits of charred green body work and broken fittings. "That's what they found when they arrived. So in the roughly one-hour time period between the car arriving at the impound yard and the rescue and police squad responding to the explosion, someone was notified of the seizure, knew where the vehicle was taken, and organized the retrieval. The surviving mechanic who was conscious said a team of two men showed up two minutes after the blast, hooked the remains of the car up to a winch, pulled it into the back of a large panel van and took off. He also said they were foreign—not French, not British, maybe Russian."_

" _So," Sherlock said, thoughts skimming at light speed through his head, "the cars are tracked individually, not by shipping labels but by electronic measures within the cars themselves. No telling what the fluid was without access to the analysis, but that may well be immaterial, just some random mechanical malfunction—cars this sophisticated are still subject to normal automotive ills, after all. But the computers—it's clear that accessing the system set a fail-safe into motion. The explosive charges had to be already present in the car, of course, but the blast could have been triggered either directly by a command built within the on-board system or remotely from the trackers."_

 _Gabe beamed. "Very good indeed. Got it in one, with one exception that we'll get to shortly."_

 _But that led to another question. "Then why wasn't the shipper prosecuted? Clearly shipping explosives through the Chunnel would violate a host of regulations, and the injury to the technicians should have facilitated murder and attempted murder charges," Sherlock said, words almost tumbling over each other as his brain sped ahead of his mouth. "Ah, I see—that's where the presumed connection to MI6 is an issue. Someone squashed the investigation at a high level."_

 _Gabe nodded. "And that's where I came in. I was involved because of the cross-channel aspect—I do a lot of that kind of thing, since I prefer to stay based here. I was called in specifically because the French were concerned that this was the tip of a much larger issue—theoretically, the computers on board these cars have the potential to carry a lot of sensitive information, especially if some relatively-simple augmentations are made. It got even more interesting when the fluid that leaked was analyzed, and the results of the analysis, as well as all of the samples, mysteriously disappeared before the technician doing the test could send it on to the investigators. And then the tech who actually did the test disappeared the next day as well—not been seen since."_

" _Convenient," Sherlock murmured. "And elaborate—someone knew whom to target, knew what lab would be involved. That implies ready access to a great deal of information that wouldn't normally be widely available externally." This, then, was presumably when his brother began setting up his tests. It wasn't a question of "is there a mole", but rather "how many are there, and where are they?"._

 _His partner hummed. "Exactly. When I started investigating the shipper, i.e. Moran, I was told some fairy tale about this particular car being sent from a private individual, with Moran's company simply providing space among their normal shipments. All of the shipping documents were very good fakes, but we couldn't prove the fakes originated within Moran's group." He paused momentarily. "I say Moran—I didn't know that name at the time. All I knew was his company name – Montrose Motors - and his alias, Stephen Montrose. I didn't found out his real identity, or his connection to, well, a larger criminal organization, until this week."_

 _"I had managed to get a man inside the operation a little over a week ago; we lost contact, and we found his body four days ago." The tall man took a slightly-shaky breath. "When I took this to my superiors, I was told that the death was clearly a robbery gone wrong, and that the French were now satisfied that the car was a ploy by the Russian Mafiya, trying to initiate shipping hazardous materials through the Chunnel to avoid the scrutiny of other routes." He leaned forward intently. "I made, um, quite a bit of noise in the executive offices, and was asked not-too-politely to leave, and consider myself on holiday for the next two weeks. But when I got back to my flat, Anthea was waiting for me."_

 _Sherlock made himself sit very, very still. Schooling his reaction was extremely important right now, as he could see where this conversation was heading. "And?" he said coolly._

" _And," Gabe said on a sigh, "she took me to her boss, who can be one of the scariest people I have ever met in my life."_

" _Do tell," Sherlock murmured, feeling ridiculous. Somewhere his brother was laughing at him; he could feel it._

" _Mmm. Mycroft Holmes. Ever met him?" his partner asked. Sherlock just shook his head. "Well. I know him slightly," Gabe continued. "Never worked directly with or for him—not even sure what his official position is, honestly, but I'm too damn afraid to ask. All I know is, if he says something will happen, it does. I, ah, assisted in a special project of his, some months back. Can't say more. But I will say, the man is not afraid to make some very hard decisions. So when he 'suggested' that I involve myself in what amounts to a sub rosa investigation that contradicted what my own superiors had told me to do, I didn't have a great many qualms about agreeing. I figure he's got the power to protect me from any blowback, if need be." He gave a small grin. "And besides, it lets me do what I wanted to do in the first place, which is usually my goal in life."_

 _Sherlock found himself smiling as well, without being quite sure why. "And mine," he added. "I often tell people I don't do anything I don't want to. Not entirely true, of course, but I might as well set expectations appropriately at the outset."_

" _That's why we'll get on so famously," Gabe said, nodding wisely. "Anthea was absolutely right. In addition to being really, really attractive." The grin was back._

" _So. I presume, from your earlier statements, that our approach is going to be offering Moran stolen high-value vehicles. Just one wouldn't make sense—they wouldn't take the risk of buying one car from casual thieves," Sherlock said, walking through the logic as he spoke. "But if a seller could locate a larger supply, and a method to acquire more, they would almost certainly be interested – we already know they traffic in stolen cars at least part of the time. So the point is—clearly you have identified a potential source."_

" _Yes I have, and it's surprising an enterprising thief hasn't already hit on it," Gabe said smugly. "That website I showed you—the rental car company. There are a number of British locations, all in major cities. And their turnover rate for cars is quite high—all those tourists rolling in every week. That means they need access to a lot of cars, since they're only in demand while they're newish, and those cars have to come from somewhere. I did a bit of investigating – turns out they source the cars predominantly from America, and some from Dubai, of all places. Most of them are turned back in from leases after 6 months to a year, and the rental company buys them and has them loaded on a ship and sent here. They come into London or Dover or Cardiff, and some are then put on special lorries for transport to the rental agency locations. But a certain proportion are driven out—they put temporary banners on them and use them as free adverts."_

" _Who drives them?" Sherlock interjected, suspecting he could see where this was going._

" _The rental company hires a service. They don't want to pay the insurance rates for a staff of their own people driving high-value cars across major cities. Their own staff drives the lorries—that's it. And here's the best part." He waggled his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Bonus points if you can figure out how they keep track of the cars once they arrive." He waited expectantly._

 _Sherlock could see many possibilities, but only one or two left an obvious opening for theft. "They presumably track the cars as they receive them—they're hardly going to accept responsibility for them until they physically have them in hand." Gabe nodded encouragingly. "But that means there are two different methods, with different timing and paperwork. The lorry cars are all accepted at the docks, and go immediately into the company's possession. There's no gap between the shipment and the end recipient. But the driving service—those people are just drivers, nothing else. They get in the car, probably toss the paperwork in the glovebox or the boot, and drive off. And the same goes for the ship owners—once the car is officially off their hands, they don't care who has it."_

 _The tall man beamed. "You're quite good at this, aren't you? Makes that lack of interpersonal skills less of an issue." Sherlock sniffed and ignored him._

 _Gabe took up the story again. "So, as it happens, the rental company doesn't actually know what cars they're going to receive until the shipment pulls into port. The sellers send them a list of possibles, and the rental company indicates which ones they want. But because there's always an issue of space in shipment containers, and sometimes mechanical or body issues with the returned cars that have to be addressed at the last minute, the list that are actually shipped don't always match what was on the original purchase order. They resolve the difference by the 'acceptance' method—the company only pays once they've taken possession of a car, and they have 30 days to pay the final invoice, and that invoice goes to the head office, not the locations. So they need part of those 30 days just to reconcile what car went where."_

 _Sherlock suddenly sees it all in its entirety. "So the rental company, when it comes to the 'driven' cars, doesn't track anything until the vehicles actually pull into their car park—they just arrange for the service to drive one or more of the vehicles out of whatever shows up, and since they go to different rental locations no one site would know what was coming in. The driver service doesn't care—they just drive whatever they're told to drive, and I suspect the number of those cars varies from shipment to shipment. I'd imagine they're usually the last cars left after they load the lorry. The ship owners don't track anything once it's left their docks. The sellers don't definitively know for 30 days whether the cars they shipped actually went to the buyer—they just know what they shipped and that the shipping crew offloaded them." He blinked. "That's…astoundingly stupid."_

" _And thank God for it," Gabe said fervently. "So basically, we could interrupt the hand-off of one of the driven cars, and it could easily be 45 days before the sellers started looking for their money. And in the meantime not one soul would even know it was missing. And because we're talking multiple ports and multiple rental locations…"_

" _We could take one car out of every shipment for the next 45 days, and no one would ever know before the cars were shipped out of the country," Sherlock finished for him. He suddenly realized his face was mimicking Gabe's grin. He pulled himself sternly back under control, but not before he noticed Gabe shaking his head in amusement._

 _Sherlock gathered his frayed dignity around himself with a huff. "So, what is the first step, and where will I be involved?" he asked, in a clinical tone of voice._

" _Well, as you pointed out, you can't be the driver. But I think your computer skills will be a big help. We need to locate the next incoming shipment off the rental company's system—I have the basic IP address for that, but you'll have to crack the encryption. I know you're not quite hacker-level, but Anthea tells me you're more than capable of this kind of thing. We need to look around in their records and see what driving service they've contracted with. Then we need to send the driving service a message, purportedly from the rental company, cancelling the booking for that particular delivery." Gabe stopped, pondered, then nodded. "I think that's it, in the short run at least. You are going to need to come with, though, just in case I need an extra set of hands." He looked quizzically at Sherlock. "Well, hand, I suppose."_

 _Sherlock made a vulgar gesture with said hand. Then he picked up the laptop and raised his eyebrows at the older man. "The address?" he said primly. Gabe handed over a scrap piece of paper with scribbled letters._

 _Sherlock was dimly aware of Gabe moving around the flat over the next couple of hours, while Sherlock concentrated on breaking through security levels and pulling up poorly-secured financial information. Finally he surfaced, having accomplished everything necessary, to see his partner placing plates and cups on the coffee table next to him. "Lunch," Gabe said simply. "Cheese toasties and chips." He sat heavily beside Sherlock and picked up his plate. "We have now exhausted my culinary repertoire."_

 _Sherlock was surprised to find himself famished. He put his plate on his lap and shoved several chips into his mouth, then leaned back into the couch cushions with a sigh. "It's extremely difficult to use a computer with only one working hand," he said sourly._

 _Gabe reached over and patted his back solicitously. "Next time you just let me know and I'll hit the shift key for you whenever you need it," he said. "And when we're done I'll put everything away and tuck you right into bed."_

" _Piss off," Sherlock growled._

" _Oi! Lighten up, sonny," the older man said, still with that mocking smile. "Lesson number one in the whole 'interpersonal skills' thing—don't take yourself so bloody seriously all the time." He shoved a large portion of his sandwich in his mouth, chewing vigorously before he continued. "So, what did we find out?"_

 _Sherlock pointedly ate half of his own lunch before responding. "WE did not find out anything, as WE were faffing about in the kitchen. I, on the other hand, broke the rental car company's security, downloaded the shipping invoices for the next thirty days, and messaged the driver service not to come for the next shipment. It's tomorrow, by the way. We'll need to get to Dover by 2 PM." He handed his plate over with a smug expression._

" _Well done, you," Gabe said admiringly. "Even if hitting all those nasty keys was difficult, you got the job done." He picked up the dirty plates and cups and wandered back towards the kitchen, still talking. "Do we know what make and model of cars may be on tap? It makes a difference as to who I call for backup drivers."_

 _Sherlock reached for the laptop and reopened the file. "Here, take a look," he said. "There are five possible makers, eight different models, all told. But if the list is correct I don't think you'll need a second driver. The lorries hold seven vehicles, so presumably at most we'll be dealing with the one outlier."_

" _Good point," Gabe said reasonably. "But we do have one additional order of business we'll have to take care of this evening before we go. How's a little light breaking and entering sound?"_

 _At just past midnight, Sherlock found himself huddling, uncomfortable and sweaty, behind a skip in south London. His partner was beside him, twiddling with what look like a telly remote and swearing under his breath quietly. Across from them was a tall fence, surrounding a swarm of aggressive-looking cars in a variety of eye-catching colors. Security lights bathed everything in an orangeish glow that grated on Sherlock's senses, and a low buzz of power from transformers set at intervals on the fence poles indicated that the fence was alarmed, if not electrified._

 _They had now been lurking here, with (in Sherlock's case, at least) increasing annoyance for the past twenty minutes, trying to get the handheld jammer in Gabe's large, sweaty hands to interrupt the power to the fence and lights._

" _Come on, you bastard," the man growled, as he entered yet another combination and punched the controls, holding it out hopefully towards the fence. The lights continued to shine, the fence to buzz._

 _Sherlock had reached the end of his (admittedly limited) store of patience. "Are you ready to try it my way now?" he asked, with the weary tone of someone who has already made this offer one too many times._

 _Austin sighed and stuffed the useless electronic jammer into his pocket. "All right. Though I'm going on record as saying that this is officially a Very Bad Idea."_

" _Noted," Sherlock sniffed, as he unfolded himself from behind the skip and strode back up the alleyway away from the hateful lights. Gabe sighed again and followed._

 _Sherlock worked up to a fast walk, heading around the corner until he reached the building housing the company offices. This, of course, was adjacent to the lot containing the cars, but wasn't enclosed within fencing. He found himself automatically gauging camera angles for security cameras, looking for wiring along doorways and windows—this was very much in his comfort zone, and he found himself relaxing, in an odd way._

 _Finally, almost the entire way around the building, he found what he was looking for—a small, high window, probably opening onto a loo, perhaps 5 feet up the side of the building. And best of all, no visible alarms wiring, and, when he touched the panes with outstretched fingers, no tell-tale vibration from a nearby power source. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out two pairs of latex gloves (one for him, one for his partner) and his lock pick set—one of the few items Anthea had brought from Baker Street, since it was unlikely John would ever notice it was missing. He pulled out the small piece of builders' putty and stuck it firmly to the window, then used the glass cutter to scribe a careful circle around it. "Hold onto the putty," he muttered, and Gabe snaked a large hand over his shoulder. Sherlock gave the glass a sharp, practiced rap with the back of the cutter, and the glass popped loose while Gabe fumbled, but held on, and then fished the piece out of the way._

 _Once the hole was made, entry was easy – Sherlock fished his long, bony fingers through the hole, turned the latch, and slid the window up smoothly in its track. No alarms—just silence. He took the opportunity to give Gabe a triumphant look over his shoulder before realizing that he had a problem—his wretched arm. He turned again, reluctantly, to see the tall man's knowing look. "Wondered when that would hit you," Gabe drawled quietly. "Let me go first and then I can pull you up."_

" _No!" Sherlock said sharply. "There may be a system that has to be disarmed once we get inside. You don't know how to do that without your non-working toy, do you? Can you hear the systems running, like I can?"_

" _No," Gabe said grudgingly. He backed up a bit. "Can't just boost you—you can't catch yourself on the other side." He shook his head. "The things I do for England." Sherlock managed not to flinch when the big man gently pushed on his shoulders to turn him, then fished one arm around his waist and lifted. Sherlock quickly lifted his feet and pushed them through the window, and Gabe gave him a quick shove up to the window ledge. He felt gingerly around with his feet until he found the toilet below him, put both feet on the lid and shimmied his way in. He quickly rose and looked around, sensitive to the sounds of security systems. Nothing._

 _He turned back to the window. "Come on," he whispered. There was a thump and a rustle, and Gabe's head, shoulders and arms pushed through the window, but then abruptly stopped. Sherlock watched with a grin as the older man wriggled, and shifted, and tugged…and then stopped again. "All right," he finally said. "I'm stuck. Very amusing, I'm sure," he grumbled. "Now come pull me through—my trousers are hung up somehow."_

 _Sherlock walked forward and stuck out his one good arm, and Gabe latched on, forearm to forearm. Sherlock backed up and pulled hard—nothing. He pondered the fact that Gabe outweighed him by at least 40 pounds. He braced his feet and pulled again, hard. Gabe groaned and wriggled, but remained stuck. Finally, Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his good arm completely around Gabe's, bracing it against his side, and threw himself violently backwards. There was a creak, and the sound of ripping fabric, and then Sherlock abruptly found himself lying on his back with the tall man draped halfway across him. His bad arm shrieked in protest, and he rolled quickly out from under, leaving Gabe groaning on the floor. Sherlock stumbled to his feet and settled himself. Just before he reached out his hand, though, Gabe spoke. "You offer to help me up and I'll break your other arm," he growled, and Sherlock pulled himself back smartly, while making no effort to suppress the grin on his face._

 _The older man rolled onto his stomach and then pushed himself painfully up. "You're the one who pointed out that I'm much older than I look," he sighed mournfully. Sherlock tried, and failed, to banish the grin, and looked over to find Gabe suddenly mirroring him. Gabe theatrically dusted off his bum, clapped his hands together, then swept his arms wide. "Well then. Let's go steal shit!" he boomed enthusiastically. Sherlock snickered and followed him out of the loo._

 _They actually did have a legitimate – well, necessary - reason for being here. Well, sort of, anyway. Gabe had pointed out that the purpose of the "driven" cars was advertising, and that the cars were draped with temporary banners for the purpose. Given that the lorry drivers were very familiar with that part of the process, they would expect to see the "driven" car draped with a banner before being driven off—were probably bringing one or more banners with them for the purpose, in fact. But neither Gabe nor Sherlock wanted to rely on that—it was just as likely that the driving service had already been supplied with the banners and would be expected to produce them as needed._

 _In truth it probably wasn't a major issue—the "drivers" could always claim to have forgotten the banners, if the lorry driver didn't have them. But Sherlock strongly suspected that Gabe wanted to test him in action before they became involved in any more dangerous dealings. And Sherlock couldn't argue with that—in Gabe's shoes he would have felt exactly the same._

 _Besides, Sherlock needed to get out of that horrible flat._

 _When they stepped out of the loo, Sherlock took a moment to acclimate himself to the low light—turning on light switches wasn't an option, obviously. But he also took the time to listen, very carefully. Once he was sure of his directions, he strode off confidently towards the left-hand hallway, Gabe trailing along behind. When they reached a door marked "Security", Sherlock checked the door handle—which turned easily. "So much for that," he smirked. Gabe rolled his eyes. "They really only worry about the outside, generally. Nothing much to steal in here," he murmured._

 _Sherlock plopped himself down in the chair facing a large console. "How convenient," he said. "Everything labelled." He busied himself with flipping switches and re-adjusting timers. When he finished he looked over his shoulder at his partner. "Now. The system is disarmed, and I just opened the gate—we can leave that way, since I don't think you want to make use of the window again." Gabe absently flipped him a two-fingered salute. "Left the lights on—someone might notice if they went out. But the system won't go back up for two hours."_

" _Let's go look for a storeroom, then. Most likely spot for the banners." Gabe opened the door and wandered off down the hallway._

 _They hit the jackpot once they rounded the corner to the next hallway—a large room lined with shelves, filled with a cornucopia of tat and marketing materials. Gabe picked up a cap bearing a Maserati logo with a glad cry. He offered one to Sherlock, who shook his head absently. Gabe continued to rummage through the clothing and other materials, but Sherlock spied something in the far corner and pounced on it. He hauled out a long length of bright yellow silk. "Got it!" he said, holding it out to demonstrate. "Let's go." He headed towards the front of the building without looking to see if his partner was coming. He heard Gabe make a discontented noise behind him before he followed._

 _They unlocked the main glass door at the front of the building—no need for stealth, as the broken window in the loo would make it readily apparent that a break-in had occurred. The gloves they had donned before starting this escapade assured there would be no incriminating fingerprints (though Sherlock found himself idly considering the reaction if his fingerprints turned up in a robbery investigation). They had turned to walk out through the car park when something suddenly occurred to Sherlock, something that made him come to an abrupt halt. Gabe, walking a bit too close, bounced off him with an annoyed huff. "What now?" the older man snapped._

" _They will know there was a break-in," Sherlock said. "But we really don't want them to know what we've taken, now do we? Particularly since we're going to shortly lift one of their cars and we don't want them to realize it quickly."_

 _Gabe blinked, while Sherlock gazed across the rows of brightly-colored cars. "So, we probably need to steal something else to put them off the trail, don't we?" he said, and gave the tall man a slow smile. Gabe's face cracked into a huge grin, and he spun on his heels to race back inside. When he came back out, he was dangling a set of keys from his fingers as he trotted over to a cherry-red Maserati, which he stroked lovingly._

 _He unlocked the door and looked invitingly at Sherlock. "This one," he crooned. "It matches my hat."_

Notes:

The "hearing security systems" that Sherlock can do? Not made up. I could hear the security systems used for jewelry counters until I was 13 or so. Swear to God. It was so high-pitched it was painful.


	27. A Sorry Lot, the Sons of Great Families

_herlock found tearing around London in a high-performance car at half two in the morning curiously invigorating. They had taken full advantage of Sherlock's memory map to avoid most CCTV cameras; luckily Gabe didn't think to ask why an agent who had been based in Budapest for the past three years had such a map in his head. Sherlock of course had a ready answer if need be—he'd learned them when he returned as a memory exercise—but it was just as well that it wasn't required._

 _Gabe, of course, had other things on his mind—things like whipping the exotic car down the quiet roads at twice or three times the legal limit, down-shifting madly, all while cackling with glee. "God, that's good," he suddenly said, as he pulled the car to a stop in a quiet industrial side street under a lone streetlight. "I'd forgotten what that felt like. Just gets the old testosterone pumping, donnit?" He beamed at Sherlock, who, if he didn't exactly beam, nonetheless found himself nodding slightly._

 _Gabe turned the engine off, reluctantly, and opened his door. "Do we really have to?" he whined, as Sherlock opened his own door and climbed out._

" _Don't worry," Sherlock said soothingly. "We'll steal another tomorrow."_

" _That's right," Gabe gasped, as if he'd forgotten. He paused, then looked at Sherlock earnestly. "I love my job sometimes." Sherlock started to walk away, with Gabe reluctantly trailing behind, when the tall man suddenly stopped. "Wait," he said, catching at Sherlock's good arm. He trotted back to the car and, while Sherlock stared in perplexity, pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on, then leaned nonchalantly against the side of the car. "Take my photo."_

 _Sherlock knew, just knew, that this was some sort of joke. "Why?" he said testily. "And why are you wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night?"_

" _Take the picture," Gabe insisted. "I always wanted to look like Miami Vice." He looked at Sherlock expectantly; Sherlock looked back blankly, just as perplexed as before Gabe had spoken. Gabe took a closer look (removing the sunglasses to do so), then heaved a massive sigh. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"_

 _Sherlock, once again irritated that popular culture was being referenced to his detriment, huffed a very cross "No."_

 _Gabe put the sunglasses forlornly back into his pocket and walked away from the car. "I forgot," he said morosely. "You're 12."_

 _They were up and out relatively early the next day, despite having only returned to the flat at 4 am. Gabe once again kipped on the couch; Sherlock noted, in a bemused fashion, that both of them seemed to just assume he would stay. Sherlock grumbled a bit but produced clean pants and socks for Gabe's use when asked. He did, however, snicker audibly when Gabe complained about how tight the pants were._

 _They decided to be law-abiding on the way to Dover, and so dutifully bought tickets for the train for the trip. Their abandoned joyride vehicle had certainly been either found or re-stolen by now, much though Gabe tried to convince Sherlock to go back and "just check"._

 _The trip took roughly 2 hours; Sherlock concluded that Gabe had decided to be consciously annoying the entire way, burbling about scenery and spitting out random historical facts about Dover. As he used to do with John, Sherlock found himself only half-listening, so it was something of a shock to hear Gabe suddenly say "So I told Anthea we'd decided to live together forever." His head whipped around without any conscious volition on his part, only to see Gabe giving him a wicked grin._

" _Knew that would catch your attention," Gabe chortled. "Tad predictable, aren't you?"_

" _I have always had a predictable response to idiocy," Sherlock huffed, in a most superior tone. But then he thought a bit. "Was there some reason you needed my attention?" he finally asked, just in case. Because there might well be, and Gabe was trying to be discreet, given their presence in a train carriage with 20 other people._

" _Mmm," the older man hummed quietly. "I just realized I hadn't shared one of the really important bits about all of this. Getting the cars is the important part, sure. But we need a place to store them, and it needs to be perfectly clean—can't have any links to MI5, MI6, anything like that, even peripherally. I have absolutely no illusions about the quality of the background check Moran's people will do. I was planning to wait on this until we had more than the one car. But I took another look at that list you downloaded, and there are four more shipments in the next 5 days. We're going to be busy little bees, and we need to have this slick as a water slide—we take the cars, we drive them directly to our storage location, it's all good. My plan, such as it is, is to dump that aspect in Anthea's lap, and see if she can enlist her boss' help. I'd be willing to bet he's got all kinds of little clandestine hidey holes about, so he can damn well share."_

 _Sherlock nodded, in a deceptively nonchalant fashion. He was going to have to accustom himself to these random mentions of his brother. "A warehouse of some kind would be the logical choice," he said thoughtfully. "Or there are a large number of abandoned factories south of the river. Anything we can jury-rig power for, with sliding doors big enough." He thought a bit. "Would you like me to contact Anthea? I suspect I've known her longer than you have. She's been my handler for several years." True enough, though certainly not in the sense that Gabe meant the word. And he suddenly felt the need to speak to her, if only to remind her that minimizing Mycroft's involvement was a necessity in this operation. Otherwise it was entirely too likely that they would encounter someone who had seen him with his brother, and would see through his disguise. None of them could afford for that to happen._

 _Gabe gave him a suspicious look. "That's out of character, my man. Or are you trying to cut me out with the lady? I have plans, you know." He waggled his eyebrows theatrically._

" _Oh please," Sherlock snorted. "She thinks of me as a badly-behaved sibling, if anything." But he couldn't resist continuing. "She probably thinks of you as a badly-behaved uncle."_

 _Gabe reeled in his seat and clutched his chest. "You are a cruel child. Go away. Call Anthea and tell her I miss her." Then he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window._

 _Sherlock snickered and wandered off to the loo to make the call._

 _Anthea was somewhat pleased to hear from him, although she did make a point of telling him that Gabe had better manners than he did. "You say that like it matters," Sherlock sneered._

" _You remember the Rule," she said serenely. "If you two ever have an argument and want me to mediate, guess who will get my vote, regardless of whether he's right or not?"_

" _I doubt it will ever come to that," Sherlock said. "But if it does, remember that I am not above bribery." And it was true, actually—there had been a time or two that Sherlock had actually paid a ransom of sorts to keep Anthea from disclosing one of his indiscretions (never drugs—that was one of her hard lines) to his nosy big brother._

" _So to get back to the order of the day," Anthea said patiently, "I will send a list of possibilities to both of you within the hour. I will need roughly 30 minutes, once you've made a decision, to gain access and set up power service. Do NOT call me in a panic when you've arrived at your chosen location and expect any sympathy from me if you haven't let me know ahead of time."_

" _Yes, Mummy," Sherlock snarked, and hung up._

 _When he got back to their seats, Gabe appeared genuinely asleep. Sherlock debated waking him; while the older man could certainly be annoying, arguing with him was much more entertaining than looking out the window. In the end, though, he settled into his own seat and shut his eyes with a disgruntled sigh. It had, after all, been a very long night._

 _Sherlock was startled to find himself blinking awake as the train pulled into the station in Dover. Beside him, Gabe stretched and yawned widely, then stood and held out a hand to pull him up. "Come on, then," he said peaceably. "Let's go get lunch before we head for the docks. I'm in the mood for seafood."_

" _Seafood", in Gabe's parlance, clearly meant fish and chips. But as luck would have it, Sherlock knew an exceptional shop in Dover—his family went frequently before trips to France when he was a child. Sherlock was pleased, in an odd way, to find it still there, still in business, and still offering excellent food at its greasy best. Gabe, not much more concerned with propriety that Sherlock was, ate every bite and then scrupulously licked each finger clean. "You're a man of many talents," he said idly. "Computers, martial arts, and restaurant recommendations. What surprise will you come up with next?"_

" _Ventriloquism," Sherlock volleyed back instantly. "That way you may finally say something intelligent."_

 _Gabe flipped him off over his shoulder and headed towards the street to hail a cab._

 _The docks were a madhouse. Sherlock loved it. Constant activity, some of it almost certainly illicit, although as usual no one noticed that but him. Ships big and small lined the docks, and huge loading cranes moved like giant stick insects, lifting immense containers off and onto decks and holds._

 _They drove along what seemed like miles of docks and warehouses, their cabbie thankfully as familiar with the docking area as he had claimed to be. Sherlock continued to entertain himself, deducing the loads, their sources and end destinations while Gabe stared out the windows in a distracted fashion. It wasn't until the cabbie made a vaguely complimentary noise that Sherlock realized he had been generating this monologue out loud. He closed his mouth with a snap, feeling the hateful heat in his cheeks as his color rose._

" _Why did you stop?" Gabe said almost immediately. "That was fascinating. And a whole lot more entertaining than any guidebook I ever read."_

 _Sherlock blinked. "I…really?" he said hesitantly._

 _Gabe nodded enthusiastically. "Hell, yeah. Anytime you want to tell me about stuff no one else sees, bring it on. Maybe you can teach me to do that sometime." He was sincere—Sherlock could tell, though it seemed unlikely. A little reminiscent of his first days with John, in fact. It was rare (and pleasant) to run across someone whose ego wasn't pinched by visibly not being the smartest person in the room. Well, car, in this case._

 _Just then they pulled up at their destination. It was one of the larger piers, with a spidery crane already winching great loads of material and containers off the deck. Parked on the far side of the docked ship from their cab was a car trailer attached to a lorry, with 5 exotic vehicles already loaded and a sixth being prepared for the trip by having light padding and protective tape added._

 _Gabe trundled quickly out of the cab, leaving Sherlock to pay. Sherlock realized John was right—that was indeed very annoying, especially since Gabe's account currently contained all of the operational funds Anthea had routed to them. (Of course Sherlock could always have Mycroft reimburse him, but the principle still stood. Annoying)._

 _They both wore their carefully-crafted outfits, designed to look like those normally worn by the driving service. They hadn't tried to create patches or logos yet, though that should come next week. But for now they both wore mid-blue shiny bomber jackets ("Very Eighties," Gabe had said in amusement) and matching baseball caps. Gabe had also insisted they have matching sunglasses to "complete the look". Sherlock had a dark suspicion it had nothing to do with their own look, but rather the look of the television show Gabe had mentioned. Sherlock had made a point to Google it before they left this morning, catching Gabe looking over his shoulder with a smirk._

 _Gabe strode confidently over to the man managing the loading of the poison-green exotic car onto the transport trailer, waiting quietly until the loading was complete before sticking out his hand confidently. "Hi, I'm George Lester, with Quality Transport. I understand you have a car or two for us to drive out." He beamed expectantly while Sherlock came up and stood quietly next to him._

 _The man looked at Gabe, looked at Sherlock, observed the shiny jackets, then looked behind them as if expecting someone else to appear. "Where's Willie and Tam, then?" he finally said, in a thick Geordie accent._

" _Off to Paris, lucky sods," Gabe replied, with an envious smile. "We had a big contract come in to shuttle cars for the Grand Prix, and they won the draw. They called me and Wills here" (indicating Sherlock by a backwards jerk of his thumb)"in from Birmingham to fill in." He nudged Sherlock with his elbow, which Sherlock assumed was his cue to present the clipboard holding the fake transport documents they'd created._

" _Oh, aye," the man said absently, looking over the paperwork. He looked up and nodded his head towards a large shipping container just now being settled on the pavement behind them. "There's only the one, today. The black Lambo," he said. But then he took a closer look at the two of them. "Might be a bit of a problem though, mate." He cocked his head to one side. "Ever driven one of those before?"_

" _Sure," Gabe said confidently. "Handles like a dream, but a real bugger on sharp turns."_

 _The agent still looked doubtful. "It's just, well, you and your mate are a mite, um, tall for it, aren't you? I think Lamborghini only rates this model to six foot even, you know?"_

 _Sherlock just caught himself before giving Gabe an accusing look. He was supposed to be the car expert here—might it not have been important to share the fact that they MIGHT NOT FIT IN THE CAR?_

 _Gabe wasn't concerned. "Not a problem. I just tilt the seat way back. Never had an issue," he said easily. At which point Sherlock realized that Gabe had never sat in a "Lambo" in his life._

 _Ten minutes later the car had been uncrated, all of the packing removed, and the tank filled with petrol. Gabe traded their set of counterfeit paperwork for a real set of transit documents, and signed for possession in an intentionally illegible scrawl, while Sherlock clamped the (also fake) set of temporary plates on front and back (something else that was both difficult and painful with a damaged arm. Next time this would be Gabe's job, even if Sherlock was supposed to be the "assistant" driver)._

 _They waited while the rental company agent loaded up his co-worker and climbed into the cab of the car transport lorry, then waved as the large vehicle pulled away. Then Gabe took the keys and popped open the door of the low-slung black car, gesturing for Sherlock to do the same on his side. Sherlock managed, with some difficulty, to climb into the low-slung seat and shove his legs under the low dash. He quickly slid the seat as far back in the tracks as possible, but couldn't fail to notice that the car was a very tight fit—not uncomfortable, exactly, but nonetheless quite confining. And then he looked over at Gabe, and cracked out a burst of laughter._

 _Gabe looked like an adult crammed into a seat at a primary school. His legs fit, barely, with the seat slid back as far as Sherlock's. But even with the seat back tilted, the top of Gabe's head was pushed firmly against the underside of the roof, to the point where he clearly had to struggle to turn his head from side to side. A black scowl lay across his features. Without turning to look at Sherlock, he spoke in a stern tone. "Not one word. Not one. Single. Word." Sherlock made a zipping motion across his mouth, while not trying very hard to suppress the snicker that kept trying to bubble up. Gabe frowned harder, and jerked the car into gear. The massive engine howled, and they sped away, heading away from the docks and back towards London._

 _Once they got out on the open road, Gabe's mood lightened. The air was warm but not oppressively so, and the sunshine cast a pleasant glow over everything. After a bit, Gabe switched on the sound system, and then insisted on leaving the station on some sort of mindless pop drivel, ignoring Sherlock's huffs of displeasure and incipient pout._

 _After a few minutes of insulted silence, though, Sherlock was bored with looking out the window in high dudgeon. "Did you let Anthea know which location we're going to use?" he finally said, as a sort of peace offering._

 _Gabe jerked a bit at his side and forced his head over to look, scuffing his hair against the roof. "No," he said. "You were supposed to be in charge of that. You called Anthea to set it up. Didn't you two finish?"_

 _And to his discomfort, Sherlock realized that, since Gabe was asleep when he returned to his seat on the train, he had never told him about the conversation. "She, erm, sent us a list of possibles. We just need to let her know which one we want. She just needs 30 minutes' lead time" (which thankfully they still had. He didn't want to think about the conversation they would have if they showed up at the chosen site and had to call her for help getting in)._

" _Oh," said Gabe, somewhat mollified. "Well, just pick one and let her know, then. Ideally something a little up-scale if possible—we want to impress these guys with our professionalism."_

 _Sherlock snorted. "We are neither of us models of professional behavior."_

" _Speak for yourself, sonny," Gabe huffed. "I am an extremely capable, professional agent. I just choose to display that professionalism in unconventional ways." He smirked without trying to turn his head again. "Tell you the truth, though, in my experience a lot of people who try to toe the 'professional' line in this business manage to make themselves, and a lot of people around them, very dead. You need that whole 'making shit up on the fly' capability, you know?"_

 _Sherlock couldn't disagree. Though he doubted his hidebound brother would share the sentiment._

 _Two hours later they pulled up to what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse in south London, not far from the river. The windows were swathed with graffiti-covered plywood, but the building itself was neither especially old nor decrepit. Sherlock had chosen this option because of the multiple bay doors and large open floor space. When he showed the photos to Gabe, the man agreed cheerfully. "It'll look like a private showroom," he said happily._

 _Sherlock pointed to the far right-hand bay door, with an obviously new touchpad mounted on the wall next to it. When Sherlock (with some difficulty) climbed out of the car and entered the code Anthea had forwarded, the bay door lifted smoothly with very little noise, and Gabe pulled the car in. He waited while Sherlock found a light switch, which illuminated a cavernous space with 30-foot ceilings. Gabe drove the car to the far side and parked, then climbed out and looked curiously around._

" _Well. This will do very nicely. We'd have room for 20 cars if need be." He wandered around, poking into abandoned boxes and peering into the back offices along the far wall._

" _Not interested in taking that long," Sherlock said firmly. "Once we have 5, we should set things in motion to contact Moran." He wanted, needed, to be quick—the sooner he worked his way through each of his assignments, the sooner he could go home. And he already knew that this process was going to be neither quick nor easy. It was unpleasant to realize that Mycroft's predictions would be proven correct._

 _Over the next seven days, they secured 4 more cars. Sherlock had to confess that the process was enjoyable—no real excitement involved, certainly, but the exhilaration of stealing a £100,000 vehicle with absolutely no difficulty never faded. And the road trips—to Dover again, then Cardiff twice, before picking the final one up from the London docks—were pleasant diversions. Sherlock had developed a secret attachment to fast cars, it seemed._

 _When they locked the last car in the warehouse and then walked out to the main road to catch a cab, Gabe turned to Sherlock and gave him a significant look. "So, you ready for the next step? Unless you can think of some reason why I shouldn't, I'm going to put out the feelers with some less-than-sterling individuals I know to leak information about our recent 'acquisitions'. I don't expect it'll take long after that—from what I hear, Moran's people haven't been exactly shy about being willing to buy."_

 _Sherlock shook his head. "We're as ready as we're going to be, and there's no reason to delay. Make the calls—I'll let Anthea know." And by that, of course, he meant "let his brother know." Much though he hated it, Sherlock knew that keeping Mycroft out of the loop in this could prove dangerous for all involved._

 _As it happened, the contact came in a gratifyingly short period of time. Sherlock and Gabe were sitting in the flat that evening, having yet another argument about what type of takeout to order, when Gabe's burner phone, the one he was using solely for this part of the operation, suddenly rang. He picked it up (while continuing to wave the Indian takeout menu under Sherlock's nose) and answered. "This is George. What can I do for you?" he said, in a slightly-impatient tone. He listened briefly, his body language suddenly like that of a dog on point. He lifted his eyebrows at Sherlock, then spoke again. "I'm going to put you on speaker, yeah? My partner's right here." He hit the button and placed the phone down on the cheap coffee table._

" _Right, then," said a confident, deep voice, with just a hint of a South African accent. "Stephen Montrose, as I said. Who else am I speaking to?"_

 _Sherlock raised the pitch of his voice half an octave and blurred his vowels. "Will Hancock," he said. "I'm the technical side of the business—maintenance and computers."_

" _Cheers," said the voice breezily. "So, I understand that you have some merchandise I may be interested in. I'll not lie, I could use a bit of volume right now. But I'm going to need some assurance of your bona fides, and my people will need to do an inspection."_

 _Before Sherlock could open his mouth, Gabe responded. "Not a problem. You'll understand that we'll have some restrictions on how that happens, though."_

" _Why don't you just give me the address of your…storage, and I'll have someone meet you there?" Montrose—Moran—said reasonably._

 _Gabe snorted. "Not bloody likely, mate. We'll meet your agent at a neutral site, and take them to the merchandise. Then we'll bring them back. Not negotiable."_

" _Trust is important between business partners," Moran said in a chiding tone. "How can we make a deal if we don't trust each other?"_

 _Sherlock fielded that one. "Trust has to be earned, Mr. Montrose," he said primly. "All we know if that you're a supposedly-legitimate businessman proposing to buy stolen vehicles in bulk. You can see our dilemma. Contradictory evidence, so to speak."_

 _There was a pause from the other end, but then Moran gave a short laugh. "Fair enough, I suppose. Text me the information—I can have my agent meet you at 10 tomorrow morning, if that will suit."_

 _In the end, the "inspection" went smoothly. Gabe texted Montrose/Moran with the address of a cafe not far from the warehouse, and let Anthea know they would need the use of a car. He also brought in one of his "ringers" for the day—a large, imposing man, taller even than Gabe and carrying an additional 2 stone of solid muscle. He looked dangerous and stupid—the quintessential criminal lackey. But he was extremely competent with his weapon, and Gabe assured Sherlock that he was nowhere near as stupid as he looked._

 _Sherlock was relieved, when they arrived at the shop, to see that Moran himself had not come. As far as he knew, Moran had only seen him once in person—at the pool, since he had almost certainly been there. But he didn't want to spend any time close to the man if he could help it, just in case._

 _Moran's agents were much as Sherlock had expected—mid-level drones, neither mindless thugs nor criminal masterminds. The hired help, essentially. Once everyone had gone through their respective rituals—Gabe had described it as a "dick-measuring contest"—they took the two men out to the car and put blindfolds tightly over their eyes. The men protested but ultimately acquiesced, just as Sherlock knew they would. They had been told to view the merchandise, so they were willing to accept the constraints required to do so. The rest was just posturing._

 _They drove their blindfolded passengers around a bewildering route of streets large and small for a solid 20 minutes before finally heading back to the warehouse (which was, in reality, less than 5 minutes' walk from the cafe). The men inspected the cars (surprisingly carefully—regardless of how they looked, these two knew what they were doing), then they all loaded back in the car and drove aimlessly around again. Gabe finally asked the two where they wished to be taken, and then dropped them off in Piccadilly before heading gleefully back to the flat._

" _We are IN," Gabe said happily. "Now all we need to do is convince them to let us into the organization for something more than just supply."_

 _And indeed they were—Montrose/Moran called late that afternoon._

" _My staff tells me your inventory is just as described," he said, in that smooth, business-like tone. "But I understand that you have expect to acquire additional units in the near future, perhaps on an ongoing basis."_

 _Gabe raised his eyebrows at Sherlock before replying. "Yes," he said slowly, without offering any additional information._

 _There was a long pause, and then a deep chuckle from the other end. "So, let's accept that neither one of us are stupid," said Moran. "I believe we might both benefit from an arrangement extending past the units you currently have. But before I'm prepared to make that kind of decision, I'm going to need some additional assurance."_

 _Sherlock took that one. "And what form would that assurance take?"_

" _I would like to send an observer along on your next acquisition. He won't take an active part—he will simply observe, to help me make sure that your setup is capable of delivering as promised," Moran said._

" _Not happening," Gabe said instantly. "We have a sweet setup. We have no intention of giving you enough information to cut us out of the picture."_

" _You misunderstand the situation," Moran said soothingly. "I'm a distributor, pure and simple. I have no interest in getting involved in acquisition—too much trouble, far too much risk. This is simply a method of insuring that no action on your part is going to leave me open to blowback, either from your providing units which are too easily traced, or from leaving me without vehicles I have already promised to buyers. It's not unreasonable, I think."_

 _And if you looked at it as if it were a legitimate business, thought Sherlock, it really wasn't. It just seemed odd to hear a master criminal and ex-Army sniper discuss distribution issues, somehow._

 _Gabe apparently felt much the same, but didn't want to give in too easily. "Let us discuss it," he said finally. "We'll be back to you within the hour."_

" _Acceptable," Moran said calmly. "One note—I will purchase the 5 units you have regardless, and at a fair price. Just let me know where to wire the funds."_

 _Sherlock hurriedly texted Anthea, letting her know that clean accounts were needed instantly. She responded quickly in the affirmative, and he nodded at Gabe._

" _All right," Gabe said amiably. "Text me the contact information, and I'll send the wire info. You should hear from us shortly on the other matter."_

 _Gabe hung up and dropped the phone on the coffee table with a thump. "Well then," he said with a huff of relief. "I think that went well. But I'm a little queasy about the whole 'observer' bit."_

 _Sherlock had been thinking, hard, during that part of the conversation. And he'd reached a conclusion. "We have to take the chance. Our interest here is not in selling stolen cars. We want to become a part of the organization, on a more-permanent basis. The only way we can find out what's truly going on is from the inside, and selling cars to them piecemeal isn't going to accomplish that. We need, for lack of a better term, an opportunity to show off. And this, dangerous though it may be, is probably it."_

" _But what can we offer, once we're in?" Gabe objected, though Sherlock suspected this was more a case of playing devil's advocate than any real concern._

" _I've been thinking about that," Sherlock said. "I can set myself up as an expert on the cars' computer systems and repair. Anthea can easily supply me with the necessary information, and access to a real expert in the field—I should be ready within a day or so. And you can come in as both a driver and a strategist—this was your plan, after all, and it is, though I'm reluctant to give you that much praise, rather innovative thinking. Moran's not stupid—he'll recognize that as well."_

 _Gabe grinned broadly. "I should have recorded that. Painful to say, wasn't it?"_

" _You have no idea," Sherlock said sourly. "Don't expect me to repeat it." But to himself, he thought that Gabe was a potentially valuable member of Mycroft's team. He would have to make a point, once this operation was over and he was ready to move on to his next target, to suggest that his brother move Gabe from under MI6's auspices permanently._

 _By that evening, it had been arranged. The next shipment was in five days, coming into Dover again. They would meet Moran's man at the train station in Dover—he was to make his own way back as well, once they picked up the car. (Sherlock pointed out snarkily to Gabe that it would have been rather difficult otherwise, since none of the cars had rear seats)._

 _The intervening time was busy. A very impressive amount of money was wired into their new account the following day, and Gabe went to meet Moran's agent (with a transport lorry) three days later to take him, by the usual circuitous route, to the warehouse. In the meantime, Sherlock spent 14 hours memorizing computer and mechanical support manuals for a host of exotic vehicles, and spent a day getting practical experience with a professional technician. By the end of that period, he felt confident that he could evaluate (and if necessary subvert) the systems of any given vehicle, with the right equipment and time._

 _He and Gabe had also spent a day in the last car they stole, teaching Sherlock to drive the manual transmission vehicle at speed. That involved a great deal of profanity (on Gabe's part) and a great deal of frustration (on Sherlock's part. He hated not being able to pick up any skill quickly, and this was no exception. His casted arm ruined his coordination, and the constant movement on the lever meant that he spent the entire time in pain). By the end, though, both he and Gabe were confident he could handle any of the cars if need be._

 _The day of the observation dawned bright and sunny—as Gabe pointed out, "a beautiful day to go steal something." They boarded their usual train—this, their third trip, made this all seem very run-of-the-mill._

 _When they arrived at the station, a text popped up from Moran on Gabe's burner phone. "His name is Mustafa. He will be wearing a red jacket, and will meet you by the coffee shop." Gabe showed Sherlock the text as they headed away from the platforms toward the shops._

 _The open air around the shops was fairly busy. Sherlock scanned the area rapidly, searching for the noticeable blazer. He had rejected two other possibilities before he suddenly saw something that stopped him abruptly in his tracks, and caused Gabe to spin around in concern._

" _What's wrong?" Gabe said quietly, looking intensely around for a visible threat._

 _And Sherlock had to tell him. But had to tell him in a way that wouldn't…that would…Sherlock wasn't sure if this could work._

 _He pointed carefully with his chin at the small, dark man lounging on a bench on the far side of the coffee shop. "His name isn't Mustafa," he said, very quietly. "That is Tarik Musa. He knows me, or at least he knows of me." Gabe clearly recognized that name. He stiffened, but didn't turn to look._

 _Because Tarik Musa was a name that Gabe would know, almost as well as Sherlock did. Former drug dealer, later Moriarty enforcer and lieutenant and, by all accounts, true believer._

 _But what Sherlock didn't, couldn't, tell Gabe was the most important part. Because Tarik Musa indeed used to be a major drug dealer, very prominent in the more raffish parts of London 7 or 8 years ago. And one of his best customers had been a wraith-thin, desperately unhappy post-grad student named Sherlock Holmes._

Notes:

The bit with not fitting in the Lamborghini? Quite true. We recently bought my oldest son a 3-lap drive in one for his 20th birthday. He's just short of 6'4". And once he put the (mandatory) helmet on, the only way he could sit in it, with the top of his head wedged against the roof, was by tilting the seat so far back he could barely reach the steering wheel.


End file.
